A Dangerous State of Mind
by scarylolita
Summary: Craig has a borderline personality and a thing for the hard stuff, but what he hates most is being alone. That's why he drags his girlfriend into the darkest corner of his life. Soon enough, she is rolling around in the mess he made with no hope of cleaning it up. Slash&Het. Warnings/pairings inside.
1. A lie

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

 **All my stuff has the same flavor .. but if you want something that is a different flavor, head over to nolotica's account and check out our collab ;) it's super duper (link near the bottom of my profile!) **

**So, anyway, I'm writing in Craig's POV, which isn't something I often do. Hopefully I can do him justice. I've never written in the POV of a character with borderline (even though I live it every day!) so this will be a little new~**

 **Warnings: abuse, noncon, sex work, drug addiction, mental illness, character death, femdom, daddy kink mention, internalized homophobia  
** **Pairings: Craig/Red/Craig, Kenny/Craig/Kenny, some side pairings**

 **DISCLAIMER: Since there is speculation Red and Craig are related, they are not related in this! **

* * *

When the sun goes up, the world looks like shit.

Today is the same as any other day. Dull. Monotonous. Then again, I like it that way.

I just turned twenty-one, which means I can finally buy my own liquor. I'm not a big drinker, though. I prefer to just get high these days.

High, high, high as a bird…

Lately I've got a taste for the hard stuff. I know I'm going down a pretty dangerous road, but I can't find it in me to care.

Right now, it's early in the evening. I'm sitting on my bed with my girlfriend. Her name is Rebecca, but most people call her Red. I just call her Becca. I know she prefers it. She says it makes her feel closer to me and it separates me from everyone else.

She's here most days.

I live in a two-story townhouse with Kenny McCormick. It's nothing special. There's a kitchen and a living room on the first floor and three bedrooms plus a bathroom on the second floor. Clyde was supposed to room with us, but he ditched us last minute to get an apartment with Bebe. They're still together, but they're always on and off. Sometimes when they have fights Clyde will spend the night here in the room that would've been his. We turned it into a guest room when Clyde said he wasn't going to be moving in, so sometimes other people crash with us.

"Craig," Becca says my name, snapping her fingers in front of my face. "You're spacing out again."

"Sorry," I respond flatly.

I've known Becca since we were babies because our parents know one another. We used to take baths together.

We've both had exceedingly normal childhoods. I don't know why we both grow up to be such assholes. Our parents are probably really fucking disappointed in us. I know they wanted more for us. Neither of us sees our parents much these days. The last time I really spoke to my parents was when I told them I was moving out. They thought I was too young. I guess nineteen might be a bit young, but it all worked out fine.

Becca was popular in high school. So was I, but we were part of different crowds. We're the same height and her strength rivals mine, but I never put it to use unlike her. I was a bit of a slacker. She was a cheerleader.

Everyone thought Bebe Stevens was the prettiest girl in school, but I always thought it was Becca. She has really red hair and really fair skin and she's soft and slender with green eyes. She has nice lips, too.

"Hey, where were you adopted from?" Becca suddenly asks, probably trying to keep me from floating away. "I never really thought to ask. I wasn't sure if it was a touchy subject or not."

"Albania," I tell her. "In Gjirokastër."

"I don't even know where that is," she admits.

"Europe," I say. "It's a Mediterranean country. My parents travelled a lot after they finished university. They ended up visiting an orphanage in Albania in the spur of the moment and adopting me. They wanted to adopt, though they probably did it somewhat impulsively. They said they kinda fell in love with me on the spot."

"Aw," Becca coos.

"They took me there a few times when I was younger," I add. "They kinda encouraged me to explore my roots, but I don't feel much of a connection to the country, honestly. It's hard to when I can't even speak the language."

"Wow," she murmurs. "So, you haven't seen your parents in a while, huh?"

I shake my head. "I'll wave if I see them around town, but we haven't actually spoken since I moved out. We didn't part well. I always wonder if they think about me… talk about me… I wonder if people ask them about me. It probably just makes them feel shitty."

"You miss them," she accuses.

Yeah, I do, but I don't want to admit it. I want to keep being spiteful about the argument we had and the fact that they didn't chase after me when I left.

"They abandoned me," I say. I don't want to be the one to crawl back.

"You pushed, Craig," she points out. "They probably decided to let you go for now. I'm sure they just want to give you the freedom you seemed to desire. They probably hope you'll return on your own. I doubt they want to force it."

It makes me bitter because I know she's right.

Out of the blue, she pushes me backwards so I'm lying down. She reaches for my legs, pushing them apart.

I nearly have a coronary.

"Christ, don't!" I exclaim, frantically shifting away from her and sitting up.

"Why won't you let me touch your butt?" she asks, pouting and whining.

"Because I'm not a faggot," I retort, collecting myself.

She rolls her eyes at me. "Don't be a dick, Craig," she says. "Be serious. I want to fuck you. Just once. I want to know what it's like to do the penetrating."

God, I hate this conversation. Ever since Bebe told her she fucked Clyde in the ass, Becca keeps asking me to do it. I always give her the same answer.

"No."

"Why?" she whines.

"Because I'm not into having stuff shoved into the hole I shit out of," I say bluntly. "That's fucking filthy."

She looks humoured. "Well, maybe you would like it. Have you ever tried it? Probably not."

"Hey, don't assume."

"So, you have tried it?" she pries. "It's okay if you don't want me to do it, Craig. Just stop being so offensive and give me an actual answer instead of being completely homophobic and ridiculous."

I frown, feeling contemplative. "My uncle fucked me in the ass once when I was fourteen," I decide to tell her. It's probably not the answer she's looking for, but I'm sure it'll shut her up.

"Oh," she says quietly, but somehow she doesn't seem all that surprised.

I wrinkle my nose. "I think he did it because we weren't _actually_ related… I mean, my parents adopted me… but still, it was fuckin' disgusting… I tried to protest, but that probably just turned the pervert on even more."

He liked to play the part of the "cool uncle." He had a big house with a swimming pool and a lot of video games. We all liked it there. Every time I'd go to his place, he'd let me and Ruby and some of my cousins drink. I thought that was fucking great at the time, but looking back on it… Well, it's obvious that was a clear warning sign that he was a pervert to let kids get drunk under his roof. Me and Ruby got drunk at his place so many times. Sometimes I wonder if he ever touched me before that night. There are a lot of blank spaces during the time I spent at his house. I try not to think about it. I never went back after that. My parents pried, but I just acted like I had other plans. Ruby never went back, either. Sometimes I wonder if she knows. She was passed out, but she might've woken up and just been too scared to do anything. I guess it doesn't matter now. We haven't spoken in a while.

Becca frowns, staring at me piteously and I fucking hate it. I _hate_ that look.

"Tsk," I click my tongue at her. "See… this is why I never tell people. I know they'd look at me like _that_."

"I'm sorry," she says quietly.

"I don't want you to look at me like that," I say pointedly.

"I won't anymore," she promises, leaning forward and pecking me on the forehead. "I'm glad you told me, Craig… and I'm really sorry you had to go through that."

"It's whatever," I tell her with a shrug. "He got arrested for possession of kiddie porn a few years later. So, he's where he belongs and I never had to say a word."

But I'd be lying if I said it didn't still bother me. It does. It probably always will because it was a really fucked up thing… Still, I like to pretend I've moved on. In reality, there isn't really a way to move past something like that for a lot of people. All you can do is deal with it as best as you can. I guess this is why I do some of the things I do. Clyde always tells me it's fucking stupid because I'm just screwing myself up worse. I guess it's true, but I don't care. It's relief.

"Did you ever tell your parents?" Becca pries.

"Nah," I say with a shrug. "I just kept it to myself for a long time, but I think they knew he in the least tried to mess around with me. I mean, after he was arrested they asked me if he ever tried to touch me or anything because he was around a lot. I got real defensive. They tried asking me a few more times after that, but I just flipped at them every time. Eventually they just dropped it. I told Clyde, but apart from him you're the only one who knows. It's funny, though… because my parents still made me go to see a therapist. They said it was just to make sure I was all right after the shock of my uncle being a kiddie diddler… but I knew it was because they wanted to know if he tried to fondle me. Anyway, I wouldn't talk and I didn't go back until a few years ago when I began going off the deep end. Maybe this is why I have a borderline personality. I don't really know."

"If you ever want to talk about it…" she trails off.

"I don't want to talk about it," I tell her. "Let's fuck."

"Now?" She sounds surprised.

"Why not?"

"Well… we were just talking about something rather heavy…" she points out cautiously.

"I don't care," I dismiss.

"We have no condoms," she adds.

"It's fine," I say. "You are on the pill, right?"

"Yeah, but it's always best to be extra safe," she responds.

"One time will be fine," I insist. "That's what the pill is for."

She shrugs carelessly, standing up and shredding her clothes. I follow after her, discarding my t-shirt and then slipping out of my sweatpants. I sit on the bed again with my back against the pillows. A moment later she sits on my lap and starts rolling her hips expertly. She prefers it on top which works for me because I'm pretty lazy. I stay in shape, but I prefer to be on the bottom when it comes to sex.

It doesn't take me long since it's been about a week since we last fucked. Work gets in the way of things.

"Sorry," I apologize. "That was weak as hell."

She laughs good-naturedly and says, "It's fine."

"Want me to eat you out?" I ask.

"Don't bother," she says. "I'm not really in the mood."

I raise an eyebrow at her. "Well, we didn't have to fuck if you didn't want to. You're supposed to tell me these things."

"It's not that," she murmurs. "I mean, I like sleeping with you even if I don't get an orgasm. It's still nice to be close to you, y'know? I still like it."

"All right," I relent. "You pissed or something?"

"No…" she starts, getting a tissue and wiping between her legs. "I just wish you'd talk to me more. You never want to talk. Whenever you tell me something important about yourself you brush it off five seconds later like it's no big deal. It's like when we take a step forward, we take two back a split second later. Why do you do that?"

"I just don't want to act like a little bitch about shit that's long over," I tell her.

She scoffs lightly. "You were hurt, Craig," she states.

"Shut up…" I mutter, standing up and grabbing my clothes after wiping my dick off.

She follows and we both throw our clothes back on. Once modest, she repeats, "You were really hurt by your uncle!"

"Shut up!" I say again, but this time I raise my voice. I don't raise my voice much, just when I'm pissed off. It takes a lot to get me mad, but Becca is pretty good at it.

"No!" she shouts back.

"I didn't tell you so you could throw it in my face like this! GOD!"

"It's not even just about this, Craig," she bites out. "It's about everything! You're always so fucking _blank_. Don't you feel anything? Fucking talk to me or cry or _something_!"

Of course that's what she fucking wants. Well, I'm not going to give her the satisfaction. Instead, I give her a sardonic smile and calmly say, "No."

"Jesus!" she exclaims, throwing her hands up in the air. "Fuck it, I'm leaving."

"Fine," I say, not bothering to chase her as she walks out even though I want to. I fucking hate it when she does that and she knows it. I hate when people _leave_.

This is how it goes.

We fight a lot. Half the time it's not even because of drugs. It's just because we're too alike. We may not seem it, but we're both confrontational assholes.

She never reacts the way I want her to. I never react the way she wants me to, either, though. But when I tell her about things that fuck me up, I'm not looking for advice or a shoulder to cry on. If I was, I'd ask. I just want her to be quiet and let things sit. I tell her my secrets because I want her to understand. Simple as that.

When I hear the front door slam, I finally leave my bedroom. I wander down the hallway and into the kitchen.

"What're you doing?" I ask when I spot Kenny hovering over the counter in front of a mixing pot. He's wearing an apron and his bangs are pulled away from his face in an elastic hairband. His hair is really shaggy, so it gets in the way a lot. He kind of looks like a skateboarder or a surfer. He's really tanned, too.

"Making special brownies," he says.

"Pot brownies?" I assume, knowing I'm right.

"Yep," he confirms with a snicker. "Want me to save you some?"

"Sure," I say.

"So…" Kenny starts, "Red ran out of here pretty fast… Did you guys have another fight?"

"She's being stupid," I mutter, taking a seat at the kitchen table and watching him bake.

"You shouldn't call your girlfriend stupid," he chides me.

"She wants me to show more emotion," I start. "I'm not an emotional person, so it's not going to happen. I don't really know what she expects."

"It's pretty weird, though," Kenny muses. "She's kind of right, y'know… You always talk in the same, flat tone. Even if you're talking about something totally depressing. You're cold. You're so cold I'm surprised everyone around you hasn't died of frostbite."

"Gee, thanks," I mutter sarcastically.

He smiles a small smile. "I mean, I've been your roommate for a few years now, plus we've known each other since we were kids… and I've never seen you cry even once!"

"I'm not a crier," I say simply.

"When was the last time you cried?" Kenny pries.

"I don't fucking know," I tell him.

"Think about it," he challenges.

So, I do. I can think of a time that happened, but I'm not even sure if it was the _most_ recent. I don't tend to remember dumb shit like this.

"Well?" Kenny asks expectantly.

"I think I was seventeen," I tell him.

"Christ!" he exclaims. "That's like four years ago, dude!"

"I told you, I'm not a crier," I repeat the sentiment.

Kenny tilts his head to the side. "I guess… So, why were you upset?"

It was the day my uncle was arrested… but I don't want to tell Kenny that because then I'd have to tell him more than I want to tell him. So, instead, I simply say, "Family problems."

Kenny nods his head, understanding. "Rough. I know what that's like."

Of course he would. Kenny's the definition of Daddy Issues, though Becca always scolds me when I say that. She says I'm victim blaming. I guess she's right. It's not Kenny's fault his dad is shit.

Kenny's dad used to hit him a lot. He'd probably still hit him if he didn't get arrested a few years ago for having a meth lab. It was on the news. Both Carol and Stuart were arrested. Shortly after, their house was set on fire. Insurance and government assistance covered enough to get Kevin and Karen a tiny apartment, but Kenny moved in with me.

Kenny says he's sure Kevin set the house on fire. He probably did it because there were too many shitty memories. I don't really blame him for that.

Kenny still sees his brother and sister a lot. Sometimes he visits them, sometimes they come here. Sometimes they go see their mom in prison, but they never go to see their dad. Only Kenny visits Stuart. I don't really know how he can bear it. He still wants to protect his dad from slander and keep on good terms. I guess that isn't surprising. People who are victims of such heinous abuse often want to protect their abusers.

"Do you work tonight?" I ask him out of the blue.

He nods his head. "I need to head down to the club at nine, so I have some time to waste. Plus, it's a short shift. Three hours, tops."

I glance at the clock above the stove. It's only 3PM.

"So, what are the brownies for?"

He smiles. "I'm having some of the boys over after my shift. I'll probably make another batch this weekend. Kyle is on spring break, so he's coming home for a bit. We're going to meet up on Friday." He pauses and glances at me before offering, "You can hang with us, if you want to."

It sucks that Kyle is spending spring break in South Park. It's still snowing here. I thought students liked to head to Florida, or somewhere warmer. Then again, maybe he just misses Kenny and Stan… probably not Cartman, though.

"Nah," I turn him down. "I work… Plus, I don't really like your friends."

Kenny snorts back a laugh. "Ass."

I hear my phone beeping from the other room. With a sigh, I go and fetch it. It's Becca, naturally.

REBECCA: Sorry.

ME: So am I.

It's funny in a gross and sad way… After my uncle did what he did, I went straight to Becca. I was a virgin until that point. I asked her if she thought there was an emotional aspect to virginity. I didn't want to believe my virginity would be gone just like that, without me having any say or choice in the matter. She said, " _Virginity is whatever you make it to be_." So, I decided I was still a virgin and I asked her to take my virginity. By then we were already dancing around each other a bit, so it was inevitable that we'd have sloppy teenage sex eventually.

I felt disgusted the entire time – not of her, but of myself. I don't know why I thought it would be a good idea. I got soft halfway through and felt like crying, but I forced it back because I refused to cry over that piece of shit bastard. So, for a long time, I didn't. The only time I cried about it was when it was happening and then when he got arrested. I was quiet about it, like I always am.

I mean it when I say I'm not a crier, but sometimes I wish I was. Maybe it'd be easier. Maybe I'd feel lighter. Either way, I can't bring myself to cry. Tears just won't come out, even when I know they should.

Whatever.

I put my phone in the pocket of my sweatpants and grab my keys and wallet. "I'm leaving," I say as I walk past the kitchen. I should probably be social instead of bumming around the house all day. I get depressed when I'm inside for too long. Plus, I'm craving caffeine.

"Bye!" Kenny calls.

"Have fun getting naked for strangers," I call back, slipping into my boots, grabbing my coat and leaving the townhouse.

Yeah, Kenny is a stripper. I don't want to sound like a dick, but it suits him. I've seen him work the pole enough times to know he's good at it, too.

Oh, well. A job is a job and Kenny seems to like what he does.

Work opportunities are pretty slim around here. Most people I went to school with ended up settling for pretty low income jobs.

Becca works at the video rental. She fucking hates it. Cartman and Jason are bouncers at the nightclub Kenny strips at. I used to bartend there a couple nights a week back when I was only part time at the animal shelter. Now I'm full time, so I don't need a second job.

Stan works with me. His girlfriend, Wendy, went to university. She's in Boulder along with Stan's best friend, Kyle. Token, Nichole and Kevin went to university, too, but they left Colorado altogether. I guess they wanted to get as far away as possible.

Token and Nichole are still dating. They went to Yale. Kevin is at Harvard. Bebe works at in the mall at some cosmetics shop called Sephora. Butters came out as trans just after high school and now goes by Marjorine. She works in a daycare. Clyde did a two-year course at the community college and now he's a welder. Tweek works for his parents at their coffee shop.

The list goes on. Everybody has something, even if it's not the something they want to be doing with their life.

Soon enough, I'm standing in front of Tweek Bros. I walk inside and spot Tweek at the cash register. I hold up my hand and wave to him. He waves back. When I'm close enough I say, "Coffee, black."

He nods and I get out my debit card, paying after he rings me in. As he makes the coffee, he asks, "How's your health?"

"All right," I say, taking a seat on one of the stools. "You?"

"All right," he echoes.

Tweek has pretty bad psychosis. That's why he's so damn paranoid. He has all these conspiracies and thinks the government is literally out to get him. People usually shake him off and say, " _The government is out to get us all, man_!" It's true enough, I suppose, but there's no use in reasoning with him when he gets like that. You just need to be patient and make sure he's okay.

Contrary to popular belief, Tweek avoids the hard stuff. He tried weed for a while, but he said it just made him even more paranoid. However, he does smoke a lot of cigarettes and have a lot of capricious sex. He did it with Kenny once. I found that so fucking odd.

When my drink is ready, I stick around instead of leaving. I chat a bit with Tweek. I don't see him as much as I used to because he thinks I'm a lot to deal with. I get that. I mean… I _can_ be hard to handle. It just sucks when people throw it in my face like that. Still, I try hard not to let it bother me.

"I'm off my medication," he tells me out of the blue.

"Is that a good thing?" I ask him.

He shrugs. "It kind of just turned me into a zombie. I swear, they do more bad than good. Anyway, my doctor wants me to keep a log of how I'm doing and if things get bad, then I have to start taking them again… but it feels good now. It's like, in a sense, I have a clearer head. My personality has returned."

I nod my head. I'm lucky I was never forced on any anti-psychotics. I've only ever had one psychotic episode in my life and that was more than enough. It was strange. I was thoroughly convinced there was someone in the house, but Kenny wasn't home and Becca was at work. I remember how fucking scared I got at the possibility of there being someone who could potentially hurt me, so I kept hiding yet every corner of the house I turned to I thought that I was being followed. I guess I ran out, because a neighbour ended up finding me down the street sitting by the mailboxes around 9PM. I guess he already thought I was a bit of a nutter. He escorted me home and returned me to Kenny, who was home by then.

It's still so weird to think about it. I was completely sure I was right, but Kenny looked through the house with me and we didn't find any signs of entry or anything amiss. The following day, he made me make a doctor's appointment.

"Yeah, that sounds pretty shitty," I say to Tweek.

He nods his head lazily. "So, how's Red?"

"She's good," I say. "Working a lot."

"That's good," Tweek responds.

We continue chatting about pleasant, light things. I sip on my coffee slowly and when it's empty, I decide I should probably head home. I've spent enough time out. "See you around," I say, getting up and disposing of my empty coffee cup.

"Bye," Tweek calls.

I take the long way home, shoving my hands in my pockets. It's pretty chilly out and the ground is slushy, but at least it's not snowing.

* * *

When I get back, I kick off my shoes, hang up my coat and go to the kitchen. I grab one of the brownies Kenny set aside for me and then laze around. Kenny is in his room, but I don't bother going to greet him.

I retreat to my my own room and undress, feeling restless. I stare at myself in the wall-length mirror that hangs on my closet door. I'm not critical of the way I look. I know I'm really attractive, vain as I may sound. It's not something I ever doubted. I've always been pretty cute. I never really went through an awkward phase like most of the guys I know. I guess I'm lucky.

I have really blue eyes – the kind everyone seems to love. My hair is black and thick. I doubt I'll ever be bald. It cooperates when I brush it and the only time it gets messy is after sex or when I wake up. My skin is pale, but not pasty. I have nice legs, nice arms. I don't look it, but I am pretty strong. I run a lot, so my stamina is pretty good even though I'm a lazy shit. I'm slightly below average in height and I'm rather lithe – slim, but not scrawny. I have a nice ass, a decent sized dick. I'm not particularly hairy and I don't bother shaving any of the hair that does grow on my body – unless it's on my face. I still can't really grow a beard and it just ends up looking pretty patchy and stupid. I have some scars on my thighs from self-harm. They're old and faded, so I don't really think about them much and Becca never brings it up. She's tried, but I just brushed her off. She's given up since then.

I guess sometimes none of it really matters because I still go through these phases where I can't think logically. Bad thoughts fill my head and I can't find one good thing about myself. I get stuck in a lot of ruts and end up doing stupid shit I regret later.

I turn away and get on my bed. I lie down and start to touch myself. I stick two fingers in my mouth and then stick them up my ass.

No…

It's not the same.

I remove them, not feeling satisfied.

"Kenny!" I shout.

A brief moment later, I hear his footsteps approaching. He opens the door to my room and eyes me, leaning against the doorway. He crosses his arms, smiling sweetly. "Yes?"

"Let's do something," I proposition, sitting up. "Kill the lights."

He does so, moving into the room. It's dim, but I can still see him clearly.

"Take off your clothes," I tell him.

And he does that, too. I watch him undress. It looks like he just shaved. He says he has to do it for work, which sounds pretty shitty to me.

He has a lot of very large and visible scars. He says they're from childhood adventures gone awry. He even has a few on his face. I don't really believe him when he says how he got them. I think they're just from his dad. He says the club manager tries to make him cover the bad ones with makeup, but he never does. He says they're a part of him and he isn't ashamed of what he's been through. I wish I could be more like that. I'm often ashamed.

"Hey, can you still put your legs behind your head?" he asks, joining me on the bed. "You used to be able to do it."

Me and Kenny took yoga instead of gym class back in grade nine. We thought it'd be easier, but it unfortunately wasn't. We got teased for it a little bit by some of the other guys. Nonetheless, we did get pretty limber. I continued with it. I think Kenny did, too, but he's nowhere near as flexible as I am.

"Yes," I say, "but I'm not going to show you – especially not when I'm naked."

"It'd be such a nice view, though," he coos, pushing me down so I'm on my back. "I bet we could do it in a lot of fun positions if you'd loosen up a bit. It's always interesting when your partner is super flexible."

I look at him with blatant distaste, but he just laughs. He laughs and laughs and laughs all the fucking time, never taking anything seriously. I guess that's how he gets through life, acting like everything is just a big game.

He hovers over me and leans down until we're close enough to kiss, but we don't. We never do. "I'm going to get something fun," he says. He pulls away from me and leaves the room.

By _fun_ he probably means kinky and potentially disgusting. I sit back up and wait.

Kenny returns a moment later with a double-ended dildo and a bottle of something sticky. He starts lubricating the toy and then he joins me on the bed, sitting across from me. "Lie back down," he says.

So, I do. I pull my legs to my chest and giving him free reign to do whatever the hell he wants. He sticks it in me, sliding it in easily before doing the same to himself. He lets out a long moan. I can feel the toy go deeper and deeper until my backside is pressed against Kenny's. I swear I can feel it in my stomach.

I perch myself up on my elbows and stare at him. He's flush-faced and visibly horny. His dick is already leaking. He's always a lot more enthusiastic than I am. I'm not even hard yet. I put my legs over his and he starts grinding his hips back and forth. Ass to ass, I follow his movements until we're in sync.

" _Ah_ … fuck…" he whispers shakily. He's always so loud in bed. I wonder if he's like this with girls, too. Probably. After a few minutes, he asks the inevitable. "Hey," he starts. "Can I fuck you?"

"No," I respond, not missing a beat.

"C'mon," he whines. "It wouldn't be the first time." He perches himself up, lifting a leg and removing the toy. He winces, pushing it out gingerly. I can feel it going deeper in me. "Fuck," he breathe, toes curling. He lets out a sigh, leaving the toy in me and sitting up. "Let me fuck you," he says, kneeling between my legs. He grabs the toy and twists it around, shoving it in deeper. Too deep…

I feel my stomach tighten. I shudder and again say, "No."

"What would you do if Red saw you like this?"

"Die," I say simply. "Take it out… it's too much."

With one brisk movement of his hands, he removes the dildo like he's trying to start a lawnmower.

"Shit!" I exclaim, convulsing around on the bed.

Kenny chortles. "Sorry."

"Ha… No, you're not."

"Please let me fuck you," he says again.

"Hm…" I pretend to consider it. "No."

"You're so uptight!" he whines. "I'll bottom if you want?"

That's not what I want.

I just want him to keep begging.

I want him to want me.

"Want me to ride you like Red?" he asks, rubbing a palm over my partial hard-on. "Or… should I put it in here?" He takes his other hand and slides a finger inside my asshole.

"W-wait…" I stutter out.

"You want me to stop?" he taunts. "Come on, tell me to stop, Craig. You want me to? I don't think you do."

He likes to tease me and I fucking hate it. He acts like it's his right because he's the only one who knows about this side of me. It's humiliating.

Then again, there are times I tease him just as bad for being a stripper. I guess we're both a couple of dicks.

"Do you have condoms?" I ask him.

"Yeah, in my room," he says. "So, is that a yes?"

"Yes, fine," I respond. "Go get one."

He gives me a triumphant smile and then disappears, returning a moment later with the desired item. He slaps it on and then rejoins me.

"Here," I say in a murmur, lifting my knees to my chest and spreading my ass. "Put it in." I try to sound calm and collected but it's a hard thing to do at a time like this.

"Put what where?" he asks coyly, wanting me to say it.

"Put your _dick_ in my _ass_ ," I bite out.

Kenny snickers with satisfaction, positioning himself against my backside. "Hey, why do you always gotta play hard to get?" he asks, sliding in easily. "Why can't you just say what you want? You called me in here, after all."

"Because it's more fun for me when you're the one who begs," I respond hoarsely, trying to get used to the sensation. We don't fuck as much now because Becca is always hanging around the house. Plus, she has a key. She spends more time with us than her housemates – Lola, Annie and Heidi.

"Y'know, you're still pretty tight…!" he exclaims, hovering over me. He leans down, but, like last time, he doesn't kiss me. Of course he doesn't.

"Don't sound so fucking surprised," I mutter, locking my hands around his back. "You're the only person I've done this with."

"Aren't I lucky?" he coos.

I try to control my voice because I hate what I sound like when I'm a moaning mess. I sound like such a fucking bitch. I hate the thought of being seen like that by anyone. I'm only loud when I'm drunk because I forget and I don't care. That's also the only time I let it happen with the lights on.

"What if Red walked in right this second?"

I let out a groan, going rigid at the thought.

"Ah..ahah…" he laughs breathlessly. "You're clenching, but it feels good…"

Of course he'd say something like that. "Pervert," I respond in a voice just as breathless. "Stop saying shit like that."

He moves his hips rhythmically, quickening his pace. His breath quickens and he lets out a boyish moan. Before I can tell him to pull out, it's too late.

"Sorry, ha," he apologizes, breathing heavily.

"It's fine," I say, cringing at the wet sensation. "You didn't last long."

"Sorry," he apologizes again. "I haven't had sex in a few weeks and I've been too busy to jerk off." He pulls out and goes down on me. I put an arm over my mouth, trying to stifle any more sounds I might make. He pauses, lifting his head. "Don't hold back," he says. "You always hold back. I like to hear the sounds you make when you're not trying to suppress yourself. It's encouraging. Like this you just sound like you just got fucking shot or you're being strangled."

Hearing that makes me sound even more self-conscious. I perch myself up on my elbows and give him a look of disdain. "Why do you always say the _worst_ things in bed?"

He smiles sheepishly and shrugs. "I have no tact?"

At least he fucking knows it. I lie back down, not bothering to respond. A second later, I feel his mouth around my dick and his fingers in my ass. I close my eyes and try to enjoy it. Kenny is good at this. Then again, by now, so am I. Funny, maybe Becca would see that if I actually let her fuck me.

I doubt I'll let that happen. I'm different when I'm with her. I'm different when I'm with Kenny, too. That's not to say that I'm being fake with either of them. I'm not. I feel like I'm constantly shaped by the people around me and the things they expect from me. In that sense, I'm used to being around Kenny like this… even though it's still fucking embarrassing.

It takes me a while to cum. It often does (unless I haven't had sex in a while). It's probably because my mind is wandering. When it happens, I don't need to give him a warning. He probably senses it by the way my legs are shaking. I feel my stomach tighten. "Fuck…" I gasp, tangling my fingers in Kenny's hair.

He makes humming sounds before drawing away. I still have a boner because, like a girl, I can have multiple orgasms. Still, I'm fine with just one. I'll go limp soon enough.

I begin to sit up, but Kenny pushes me back down, hovering over me. "How do you feel?" he asks. "Honestly."

"Out of it," I admit, since he wants the truth.

"Wow, I'm that good, huh?" he jokes, smiling down at me.

"You're funny," I say tersely.

He sobers and then pries with, "So, what is it, then?"

I hold out my hands and stare down. "I don't know... but sometimes I don't even feel real," I murmur.

"That's fucked up, dude," Kenny snorts. He never takes anything seriously. Sometimes I fucking wish he would… especially since I let him put his boner in my ass.

"Suck my dick," I mutter.

"Just did," he points out.

I let out a sharp sigh. "I have BPD, _asshole_. Sometimes I dissociate and shit gets all weird."

It happens a lot during sex… for obvious reasons. It's probably something that'll always happen because sex was pretty much ruined for me.

"I know," Kenny says, softening. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't make jokes."

"Whatever," I mutter. That's just the way he is. I'm not excusing it, but I accept it. Plus, on the grand scale he's pretty much harmless. He has no ill intentions. I know that for a fact.

"Is that why you wanted to have sex? To connect… or ground yourself or whatever?"

"That's not it," I say vaguely, because it's basically the opposite and I don't want to get into that with Kenny.

"You always make me turn the lights off," Kenny points out suddenly, still staring down at me. "Why?"

"Because it's humiliating," I state, making eye contact with him. "I'm always embarrassed."

"You shouldn't feel embarrassed," he reasons. "Well, unless that's your kink…" A pause. "Is it? Do you get off on being ashamed or something?"

"No," I say dryly. I push him away and sit up again, grabbing a tissue from my nightstand. I wipe the mess away, grimacing to myself. This part is so gross.

Kenny lies down, watching me. He's always looking at me. I don't like it, but I can't really tell him to stop.

"Becca wants to fuck me in the ass," I tell him, disposing of the tissue and lying down with him. For some reason, I want to make him jealous.

"Why won't you let her?"

"Because I don't want her to see me like that," I confess. "When I'm with her, I'm different… When I'm with you, I'm also different."

"How?" he pries, perching himself up on an elbow and staring down at me.

I glance up at him before returning my gaze to the ceiling. "I don't know… I'd just find it even more humiliating to let _her_ see me that way. It's bad enough you see me like that."

"Hm…" he muses. "That's silly, though. When me and Bebe used to hook up, she'd play with my ass all the time. You shouldn't feel embarrassed about it."

"Bebe is the one who put these ideas into Becca's head," I mutter.

Kenny chuckles at that. "Yeah, she's into that kind of stuff… but it doesn't matter. It's not like it's going to make you gay or something. Everyone has an asshole. Besides, I think you're a little past the fear of being a homo… especially since we do stuff like this."

"I'm straight," I say, but it sounds stupid even to my own ears.

He rolls his eyes. "Sure, dude."

"I am!"

"All right, chill," he says. "Be whatever you want to be, man… but I do think you have some internalized homophobia that you need to deal with."

"No, I don't," I deny.

He gives me a dull look, doubting me. "If you're so straight why the fuck do we do this?"

He's giving me a headache. I rub my temples. "God, just shut up…"

"Just admit you're bi."

"I'm not," I insist, but I pretty much am. I don't know why it's so hard for me to admit it.

"Then what the fuck are we doing?" he asks, sounding exasperated. "Christ, Craig… Why do you let me stick my dick in you if you aren't at all attracted to me? Do you even like sleeping with me or is this some sort of twisted self-punishment? Because if it is, tell me. I don't want you using me to punish yourself. That's fucked up."

I feel sick, dizzy and trapped. My plan of making him jealous has backfired and I don't know what to tell him. I don't know what he wants to hear. "It feels good," I murmur. "I don't hate it…

"So… you like sleeping with me?" he asks, needing the reassurance.

"Yes," I bite out.

"Who is better in bed – me or Red?"

"You're both good," I respond.

"But who is better?"

He's not going to let this go.

I shake my head. "If I say you, then you'll never let me forget it… and if I say her, then you'll get mad."

"I won't get mad or anything, I promise."

He's saying that because he already knows the answer. He just wants me to confirm it.

I stare at him for a minute, debating whether or not to give him what he wants. Ah, fuck it. "It doesn't feel as good unless I have something in my ass."

Kenny stares at me and then begins laughing. "That's the sluttiest thing I've _ever_ heard you say!"

"Says the stripper," I retort, giving him a particularly harsh shove.

He falls backwards off the bed and lets out a pained groan. "Touché…" he relents, climbing back onto the mattress. He shifts towards me, pulling me into his chest. "I like you, Craig… Hell, maybe more than that."

I want to tell him to stop, but that would be cruel, wouldn't it? Then again, perhaps stringing him along like this is much crueller.

So, I simply say, "Yeah…" I lean my forehead against his shoulder and we stay like this for many long minutes.

I think he's crying, but I don't mention it. That would just make things awkward. Kenny cries a lot. He's the opposite of me in more ways than just that. He's light and I'm dark – in every aspect of our personalities. He's been through just as much as I have, but he deals with it differently. He doesn't let it affect him so negatively. He lives a fairly clean life these days, unlike me.

I have no intentions of being with him. I can't. I don't know what I want and even if I did, I'd never be able to bring myself to say it. It's easier to be with Becca. She's familiar and comfortable and I do love her.

She's the only person I've ever kissed, not including my uncle slobbering all over me. I haven't let Kenny kiss me. He's asked to, but I turned him down. He never asked again after that.

It's stupid. It's like… as long as our mouths don't touch, then I can keep pretending I'm not cheating on my girlfriend. It's wrong, but I always try to justify it in stupid ways. I like to pretend I have an excuse. Becca was my first, but I wasn't hers and I find that unfair because I don't like the thought of her being with anyone who isn't me... and yet I keep doing this to her.

Still, I think if Kenny asked to kiss me one more time, I'd let him… but he won't, so I guess it doesn't matter.

"Kenny?" I say his name.

"Hm?"

"Why do you like me?"

"I just do…" he says. His voice is hoarse.

"Do you think I'm attractive?" I ask.

His pulls away from me and his eyes are glassy. I was right. He was crying. "Yeah," he admits. "You're a really pretty guy. Red is lucky to have you."

When I stare into his eyes, I can see myself. I don't really know what that means, or if it means anything at all. We're both too different but we both have scars. Mine are self-inflicted and I think a few of his are, too, but I never asked because I know most of them are from his shitty dad. We both stand at a measly 5"5' and we're both relatively slim… but I think that's it. I'm small for a man.

A man…

It feels weird to call myself a man. I still feel like a boy. A child. A stupid child who gets fucked by his stupid uncle…

"I'm sorry," I apologize suddenly.

He doesn't ask me why I'm apologizing. He knows. So, instead, he just says, "It's okay. I can't force you to feel something for me. I'm satisfied with having at least this much of you."

I can't help but wonder how.

"Tell me a secret," I request. I don't know why I'm asking. Maybe I'm feeling sentimental. Maybe I want to connect with him in a different way than just purely physical. Then again, maybe I just like the power that knowing secrets gives me.

Kenny looks thoughtful for a moment. "When I was a kid I used to wet the bed a lot and it pissed my parents off," he says with a bitter laugh. "My dad once beat the shit out of me for it. I don't think he ever realized it was his fault I did it. I was always so fucking scared of him and I guess it resulted in me not being able to control my bladder for a while. It stopped after I was thirteen, but yeah…"

"Oh…" I murmur uncomfortably. I didn't expect him to reveal something so heavy.

"Your turn," he says.

"Um," I muse. I try to think of something, but I can't. All I can think about is my uncle and I don't want to share that story twice in one day.

Great. Now I feel shitty.

Everything always backfires and blows up in my face.

I get out of bed without saying anything and I grab my clothes, moving across the hall and into the bathroom. I step in the shower briefly, rinsing myself off. I feel like I'm going to have a fucking heart attack. Or is it a panic attack? Anxiety attack?

No.

No, no, no.

This isn't me.

I'm not someone who whines and gets all emotional.

I turn off the taps and step out of the tub, grabbing a towel. I dry off and quickly throw my clothing back on. Before reaching for the door handle, I hold my breath. I do it in a way that reminds me of something I did as a kid.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven…

I always counted to seven over and over again. The numbers were always stuck in my head because of this old nursery rhyme my grandmother taught me when I was learning how to count.

I move back into my room. By now, Kenny is half-dressed. He's sitting on my bed, looking like he's been waiting for me.

"Hey," he says. "What was that?"

I dismiss his question, sitting down next to him. "When I was a kid… I'd hold my breath when something didn't go my way," I start. "If my parents said I couldn't have something, or I couldn't go somewhere, I'd hold my breath until they relented and gave me what I want. I was spoiled."

Kenny smiles a small smile. "That sounds like you."

"Hey," I say, nudging him. "Tell me another secret."

"You want to know something else?" he asks me and when I nod he continues, "When I was a kid, I wore that stupid fucking parka because I didn't want to be seen. I didn't _like_ to be seen. I wasn't comfortable being looked at. For me, being naked was the last thing on my mind, but I've grown up since then and being naked means something different. It doesn't matter whether you're being paid, whether you're on film, or in a room full of people. It doesn't matter if it's just you and another person alone, soaking up each other's comfort… It doesn't matter, as long as you and that person both have respect for each other. You can always tell. I used to sleep around with people and I didn't care. I wouldn't say I regret doing it, because I don't, but I do get that some of what I did was wrong. I was doing it for all the wrong reasons."

"And now you're doing it for the right reasons…?" I wonder. "That's why you strip?"

"A person's body tells a story," he explains. "It has memories, whether they're visible or invisible… whether they're told or untold. I'm proud of that. I'm even proud of the bad things because they were lessons. The most exhilarating thing you can experience is having your naked body with that of another person. That's why I like being naked. It's empowering. I like my body and I like the things it does."

I force a smile. "All right. Fair enough."

He smiles back and then points out, "Y'know, you smile a lot more these days."

"It's a conscious effort," I confess. "When I was a kid, I never smiled and people always told me to because I looked so sour. I hated that."

"When I was a kid I smiled a lot," he says. "I think it's how I compensated for always feeling shitty."

"That's how I am now," I admit.

He nods his head, frowning. "So… Are you okay? You looked like something in you snapped…"

"Yeah, I'm fine," I insist. "Just having a moment."

"Borderline business?" he asks.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes at him. "Not really."

"What's it like?" he pries.

"Google it," I say.

"Isn't it better if I ask you? Everyone is different and I'm just interested in you."

"I get tired of explaining it," I admit. "People always ask, but they don't really seem to get it. They ask to be polite but whatever I say goes in one ear and out the other. They just think I have a bad attitude. They don't get that I'm literally emotionally unstable and I don't process things the way most people do. I'm not _trying_ to be a brat."

"I don't think that you have a bad attitude," Kenny promises. "People just don't get that there are things that shaped you that were beyond your control. That's what happened t you, right? Something bad?"

"Yeah, something bad," I murmur, "but for others, it's just genetics..."

Part of me wants to tell him because I think he deserves to know, but I won't. Not yet. Sometimes I come close to telling him, but I never end up actually getting the words out. I just say something else instead, something less important.

If I told Kenny, then he'd know all my secrets. He'd be the only one.

Clyde knows most of them and hasn't treated me any different. The only thing he doesn't know is that I'm doing it with Kenny. I have a lot of shame over it, but I know Clyde wouldn't judge me on it. He never does. It doesn't matter what I do, Clyde treats me the same. He even cried for me when I told him about my uncle and somehow it made me feel better because I couldn't cry for myself. I just sounded so fucking empty as I got the words out. I felt it, too.

I don't know what made me tell him. I just felt heavy, like I'd end up exploding if I didn't at least tell _someone_. So, I chose Clyde. I chose Clyde because he never let me down before and I knew he wouldn't then. I would have told Becca, but I wasn't ready for her to know a thing like that about me. There was a dramatic difference in the nature of my relationship with her.

The words come out easier now, almost like a joke… though nothing about the memory itself is easy. It still makes me sick to my stomach with anger and revulsion.

Like any ordinary teenager I used to masturbate a lot, but after that happened I could hardly see myself naked let alone touch myself. I'd wake up covered in jizz-stains because I wasn't taking care of things. That went on for many months. I didn't sleep with Becca again after the first time. Instead, I spent most of my time with Kenny. We'd get drunk and stupid. He's a talkative drunk. I've learned a lot about him that way.

We only became friends because I bummed a cigarette off of him near the end of freshmen year. Something about him drew me in and we just continued to hang around each other.

The first time I saw the perverted side of him was when we were drunk. It was a few weeks after I did it with Becca. Our friendship was still new. We were sitting close, watching some stupid horror movie in his bedroom. Halfway through the movie, Stuart came in and started screaming at Kenny, accusing him of drinking all the beer. Kenny had a boner. I don't fucking know why he got hard from being yelled at, but he did and it freaked me out. I was worried he was going to ask me to touch it or something because he knew I was staring, but he didn't.

When the movie was over I went home. Kenny apologized to me the following day. He asked me not to tell anyone and then called himself twisted. I just said it was fine and that I'd keep it a secret.

The first time we slept together was a mere few days after that incident. It was a mess. I don't know what made me ask for it, but I did. We were watching a movie in his room again and I turned to him and asked if he wanted to do it. I thought it might make me feel better since doing it with Becca didn't. It was a fucking stupid, desperate idea.

Naturally, Kenny was up for it. He muttered compliments the entire time and for some reason it just made me feel dirtier. I couldn't get off. I just kind of lied there, feeling paralyzed. There were about a million thoughts running through my head and I was trying to compartmentalize them. I was trying to sort them out and put them into tidy boxes, back where they were supposed to go. Kenny kept asking me if I was okay. I'd just say, " _Mhm_ ," in the weakest, meekest tone. I wasn't looking at him. I was looking at nothing in particular. Nothing about my surroundings was registering.

Kenny didn't finish inside of me. He pulled out and finished in the bathroom, giving me a moment alone. I think he knew I wasn't okay.

When it was over, I realized that I was clenching my fists so tightly there were bloody crescent moon shapes in my palms. " _Are you okay_?" Kenny asked yet again. I insisted I was, but he knew better. " _No, you're not_ ," he said, " _but I won't pry… just talk to me if you're ready_."

He never brings up that memory. I think I'd die a little on the inside if he did because I know I was a horrible fuck. I don't know why he still wanted to sleep with me again after that.

I didn't think I'd ever be okay because my uncle fucking ruined sex for me. Doing it with Becca sucked and doing it with Kenny sucked even worse… I hated it, yet I still kept doing it with the both of them. I don't know why. I guess it sounds messed up. Maybe I wanted to prove something to myself. Maybe I didn't want to let him get the best of me. It's bullshit though, because I kept making it all about him when it should have been about me and while one part of me likes sex, another part of me still fucking hates it and probably always will.

I eventually went back to Becca after the first time, asking for a do-over. After that, she told me she liked me. I told her I liked her, too. Kenny wanted me to choose him, but I chose Becca. Still, he stuck by my side.

"You're spacing out," Kenny says, waving a hand in front of my face and bringing me back to the present. "What are you thinking about?"

"Uh, nothing," I respond, finally joining him on the bed.

Out of the blue, he puts his arms around me and then pulls me down with him. I let it happen, lying with him quietly until he has to leave for work.

* * *

Around midnight, Becca comes over. She just finished her shift. Kenny is already back from work by now, too. I can hear him and his friends all the way from my bedroom. Still, I'm trying to drown them out.

"Do you have any _stuff_?" Becca asks, crawling onto my bed.

"Yeah," I tell her. "Wanna do it now?"

"In a few minutes," she says. "Um… we can talk first if you want?"

I refrain from scoffing at her. "What about?"

"I said some shitty things earlier," she starts. "I was getting impatient and making you feel bad over something pretty serious. I shouldn't try and tell you how to deal with it. Anyway, I'm sorry."

"You already apologized," I point out. "So did I. It's of the past, okay?"

"Okay," she relents quietly, taking a seat on the edge of my bed.

"But why weren't you surprised when I told you what my uncle did to me?" I ask, eying her.

"Um, well… I didn't want to go assuming shit, but there were times I kinda wondered if something fucked up happened to you as a kid," she admits. "I mean… you got kind of weird about nudity for a while. I was kind of used to seeing you naked and I remember walking in on you when we were fourteen and you freaked out and told me to knock. I thought it was weird and then the following week you asked to sleep with me… which was even weirder. You went soft and I felt like I wasn't pretty enough or something." She pauses, letting out a sheepish laugh. "Plus… you have those dreams once in a while."

"Mm…" I mumble.

Right. Nightmares, I guess. Sometimes they're not even dreams about my uncle, they're just dreams of me running or getting trapped or seeing people die... whatever. Cliché shit. Becca says I mumble in my sleep a lot and so she ends up shaking me awake.

"How do you feel right now?" she asks.

"I'm not sure," I admit. "I wish I knew, but I don't."

"That's fine," she says. "You don't need to label everything, I suppose."

"I prefer to," I point out flatly. "I need labels, Becca. If I don't label the things around me, I won't know what the fucking hell is going on and it'll frustrate me. I need to label myself to remind myself of who the fuck I am."

Yet I still can't come out and admit I like men.

I can feel my temper rising. I move towards my nightstand and open the first drawer, pulling out a metal box.

"Craig –" Becca says my name.

"Sh, no more talking," I cut her off, sitting down next to her and opening the box. Inside is a plethora of drug paraphernalia – alcohol swabs, spoons, syringes and of course the most important part: the drug itself.

I take out the spoon, getting the drug ready.

"Here," I murmur, handing her the syringe. "There's a glass of water on my desk."

She nods, taking it. A moment later, she hands it back to me. I squirt the water over the powder on the spoon and then set it aside before grabbing my lighter. Using one of the cotton swabs as a filter, I draw the dissolved drug in through the syringe.

"Okay, here we go," I murmur

And this is what we do. There's not much else in a shit-hole town like South Park. Kenny has some of his friends over. They're all local loadies. There's a cooler of jungle juice in the kitchen. They already inhaled the brownies. Weed and liquor doesn't mix. Kenny is probably going to black out.

Me and Becca stay in my room for the night, pretending we're different from them when in reality we're probably worse. What we do is worse. What we do is a lot more dangerous and potentially fatal.

The first time I did heroin was when I was eighteen. I did it with Jason because we were both curious. He didn't like it, but I did. Still, I managed to keep myself away from it until last month. I asked Jason where I could get some and he introduced me to a guy. So, I bought some of what he was selling. I did it with Becca and I fucking hate myself for introducing her to this shit. I'm a bad person for it because she likes it as much as I do, sometimes even more.

It's weird when your own body is used against you. Usually you can try to escape the things that hurt you, but you can't really run away from your own body, so you try to numb it instead by hurting yourself.

Maybe that's why I do it and maybe I dragged Becca into it because I didn't want to do it alone. I'm so fucking scared of being alone, yet I'm constantly pushing people away and I never let anyone in. It seems counterproductive. I don't give anything, yet I take and I take and I take. Sometimes I find it so hard to relate to other people, to empathize, to remember that other people have feelings and it's not just about mine. I feel guilty because I feel like I use people - people like Kenny and Becca. Maybe all it boils down to is that I fucking hate myself and I'm in too much pain to think about anything other than me, me, me.

Becca ties the belt around her arm and allows me to do the rest. She closes her eyes as the needle slides in. "Good?" I ask.

"Mm…" she moans, lying down.

She threw up the first time we did it. Then again, I threw up my first time, too. Jason didn't, though.

I take the belt from her and tie it around my own arm, clenching it in my teeth as I ready a second needle.

We always try to be careful, but it's kind of pointless because what we're doing is still so fucking stupid. I'm probably going to die from this and I've come to terms with that, the only thing I regret is taking her with me.

I stare down at the crook of my elbow, positioning the needle. I let out a long, content sigh. I put the needle back on my nightstand and toss the belt on the floor before lying down with Becca. She puts her arms around me and starts playing with my hair.

It's quiet. We're quiet.

* * *

Later in the night, I find myself waking up. I guess if fell asleep. The lights in my room are still on. I sit up and glance at the clock. It's 5AM. The start of a new day. I can hear sounds coming from outside my bedroom door. I get out of bed and turn off the lights, darkening the room. I tip toe out into the hallway just in time to see one of Kenny's friends leave. I watch at the top of the staircase until he's gone and then I make my way downstairs. I turn into the living room and Kenny is alone – alone and naked.

So, that's what they were doing…

"Hey, Craig," he says carelessly, picking his clothing up from the carpet.

Funny. I was trying to make Kenny the jealous one earlier, but now I'm the one that feels jealous.

"What the hell?" I ask him, but he doesn't respond. He just smiles sheepishly. "Did you fuck everyone that was here tonight?" I bite out.

"No, not that it matters," he says calmly. "You're the one hiding away in your bedroom putting chemicals into your damn veins. I don't tell you how to live your life, Craig. Don't sound so disgusted. I had sex with _one_ guy. I'm allowed to, you know."

I keep my mouth shut. I feel like I'm going to fucking implode.

He moves into the kitchen, holding his clothes under his arm as he gets a class of water. He sips slowly and all I do is watch him.

"Are you jealous?" he asks me, setting his clothes on the table. He's frowning. "You can admit it. I know it's not because you want to be with me. It's just because you're possessive. You feel like I'll leave you if I'm with other people the way I'm with you." He pauses and then says, "We can do it if you want." He moves in front of me so we're standing face-to-face. He stares at me for a moment before slipping a hand beneath the waistband of my sweatpants and reaching for my dick. He jerks me off and I literally feel myself go hard in his hand.

"Becca is upstairs," I point out flatly, staring at him with what hopefully looks like a dull expression.

He shrugs his shoulders. "Who cares? You want to do it, so let's just do it. She's not going to wake up." He turns around and says, "You can fuck me. I'm already prepared and stretched out."

Great, just what I want to hear… Nonetheless, I move forward, pressing him against the counter. He's still pretty wet and kind of loose – a lot looser than I am after a fuck. I stick three fingers in at once, shoving them in as deep as I can.

He shudders, leaning over the counter and letting out a shaky breath. "That feels good…" he murmurs, lifting one of his legs onto the counter. He squirms, tightening his grip on the edge.

I pull out my fingers gingerly, positioning myself behind him and pushing my pants below my hips. I slide in easily. The guy who was fucking him before me probably had a really massive dong.

Halfway through I can feel the remaining lube drying up, but I don't stop. I wonder if I'm hurting him. If I am, he doesn't say anything. He just chokes out these little, breathy moans. It almost sounds like he's sobbing, but I don't stop.

It takes me a long time. I'm going to blame it on the drugs. By the time I manage to cum, his ass feels pretty dry. I pull out gingerly and I hike my pants back up, not bothering to wipe my dick off. I watch as he moves to the table, picking his shirt and putting it on. He does so slowly, like his limbs ache.

"You don't want me to get you off?"

He gestures to his limp dick. "My refraction period is, like, really long and the liquor doesn't help. I'll be out of commission for at least a few hours." He lazily wipes himself off with a paper towel. Pressing it against his backside, he says, "Damn, it's still coming out…"

"Did it hurt?" I ask.

"It felt good," he responds before smiling slightly. "Why? Did you want it to hurt me?"

"No," I tell him and it's true. I'm mad, but I don't want to hurt him. I know I'd regret it. I hate hurting people… yet it's something I always seem to do.

"Either way, sometimes it's fun when it hurts a bit," he confesses, finally disposing of the paper towel and putting the rest of his clothes on. "And you know me... I can be a bit of a masochist sometimes."

"That's messed up," I tell him. "You have weird kinks."

"Yeah, vanilla is boring," he adds.

"Whatever you say," I mutter, but I can't find it in me to agree. I like to keep things as vanilla as possible. I'm not like Kenny. Sometimes he brings home the gnarliest looking men and he lets them touch him and he calls them Daddy as they do it. I hate hearing that. It just makes me feel bad for him. He doesn't do it often. I think a particular mood has to strike for him to be up for it. He doesn't think it's as weird as I do.

"It's amazing that you can still get an erection," Kenny says out of the blue.

"I'm not a junky," I point out.

"You will be," Kenny responds. He's not smirking anymore. Instead, he just looks kind of sad – sad for me.

"How do you know?" I ask him.

"I know lots of things," he says vaguely. "Besides… you know it, too. Heroin doesn't just kill your dick. It'll kill you, too, if you keep this up."

Sometimes I wonder if Kenny is just joking around when he pretends to know everything in the world. Then again, maybe he's not.

"My heart fucking hurts when I think about you," he confesses. "It's not because you don't love me back. It's just because you're gonna put yourself through so much shit and I think you deserve more than you give yourself."

"Love?" I question.

"Yeah," he murmurs thoughtfully, leaning against the counter. "I've been thinking about it a lot and I guess I love you."

"Oh, wow," I state.

"You don't have to say anything," he says with a shrug. "I mean, I know you have a girlfriend and you love her, not me… It's fine. I just thought I'd let you know because you deserve to know."

"Is it really okay for us to sleep together if you feel like that?" I ask.

He smiles. "It's not okay, period, Craig. You have a girlfriend. You're cheating on her with me. You've been cheating on her for years – since you guys started dating. I won't pretend to get it… but nothing about this situation is right. It's all wrong. So, who cares?"

"I guess so," I relent.

"Do you feel guilt?" he pries. "Do you ever feel crippling amounts of regret when you're with her because there are times that you're also with me?"

"I guess so," I say again.

Honestly, I feel bad for the both of them. I keep Kenny on a string. I keep Becca on a string, too. I don't know what's going to happen. I don't know if Kenny will move on. I don't know if Becca will ever find out. I don't know if she'd hate me for it or if she'd forgive me. Somehow, I think she'd forgive me and maybe that's why I'm so quick to cheat.

Silently, the two of us walk back upstairs. When we reach the top, he pauses. "I need to shower," he murmurs. "I'm pretty sure I got a lot of dried cum caked all over my ass and thighs."

"Classy," I snort and he just chortles before walking into the bathroom.

When I turn into my room, Becca is awake but she only looks like she's partially aware. "Hey," I greet her, glancing at the clock. I was down there for a half an hour. I wonder how long she's been awake. "Did you just wake up?"

"Yeah," she says, holding out her arms. I join her on the bed and she wraps her arms around me, lying down and dragging me with her. "You smell strange," she notices.

"Like what?" I ask.

"I'm not sure," she murmurs, "but you don't smell like you normally do. What were you doing?"

"I was downstairs with Kenny and his friends for a bit," I say. Somewhat of a lie.

"You hate his friends," she points out.

"I know, but I didn't feel like going back to sleep," I tell her. "I felt a bit clammy."

"Oh," she says, seeming satisfied with that much.

"It's fine now, so let's go back to bed," I tell her, rolling off of her so we're lying side by side. She shifts closer so our shoulders are touching. "I love you," I say out of the blue.

She shifts even closer and kisses my jaw. "I love you, too," she says, lying against my chest. Her weight is warm.

For a few minutes I stare into the dimness of the room, not looking at anything in particular. There's a knot in my gut. I feel heavy. I feel sick. I'm smothering her.


	2. A funeral

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

 **Thanks for encouraging feedback ;}**

* * *

It's Friday and my grandmother is in the hospital. My parents called me, but I was at work. They left a message. It was quick and to-the-point, so much that it was almost harsh.

" _Your nan is dying. She's in Hell's Pass. Come see her when you can so she can sort out the will."_

I don't really want to think about it. So, I haven't yet. I know I shouldn't be wasting time because I don't know how much time I have left… but one of my greatest talents is avoiding things until they blow up in my face.

I was always close to my grandmother. She was always around when I was young. She always gives me a hundred dollars on my birthday and she always says she is proud of me even when I never give her reasons to be.

I still visit her once a week. My grandfather passed away years ago, but she still lives in that same, old house. I wonder if she's lonely. I like to think I help ease her, at least a little bit. She's one of the few people I feel like I can talk to. She doesn't know all my secrets, but she knows enough.

She has me over for tea weekly. She asks me about my life, my friends, my roommate, my girlfriend. She knows I've got BPD. Sometimes I talk about it with her. She walks me through bad days. She's always been particularly understanding. Most other people aren't like that.

I guess none of that will ever happen again. I wish I spent more time with her last time I was over, but I was in a hurry to leave because Becca was coming over. I ditched my grandma to do drugs and now she's dying. I really regret doing that.

"Craig, what's on your mind?" Becca asks me.

"Nothing," I insist.

I sit on the bed and watch her do her makeup at my desk. Foundation, eyeliner, eyeshadow, lipstick. She makes it look like an art. Well, I suppose it is an art. I remember when I was young I'd sit on my parents' bed and watch my mom do her makeup. Like Becca, she made it look like an art. I remember how mesmerizing I'd find it.

God, I feel nostalgic and shitty today.

"I'm going to that march after work," she tells me. "Take Back the Night."

I suppose Becca is a little bit like my mom – kind, an outspoken feminist, someone who tells it how it is.

"Oh," I say.

"You told me you'd come," she reminds me.

"I know…" I murmur.

"It's okay if you're not up to it," she adds. "I know that social stuff is kind of hard for you sometimes. You hate crowds and loud noises. Marches are both crowded and loud."

"Yeah, sorry," I apologize. "I really don't want to go anywhere today."

"It's okay," she says again, turning around and smiling at me. "Wendy is back in town, so we're going to go together."

"Lovely," I say.

"So, Kyle and Stan are gonna be here later?"

"Mm…" I grumble.

I used to hate those assholes. They always used to try and manipulate me when I was a kid. Most of the hatred has waned away, especially since I work with Stan. I have to see a lot of him these days.

She chuckles, reading me easily. "Yeah, yeah, I know you don't like them… but y'know, you should just forgive them. Isn't that easier than holding a grudge?"

"No," I tell her. "It's easy for me to hold grudges. It's effortless."

"That doesn't sound healthy."

"I don't really care."

I remember them trying to con me out of my birthday money one year. God, I hated them so much after that. I hated Kenny for a while, too, but he made up for it. He was always a lot easier to be around than his friends. Plus, he apologized profusely. Probably because he still wanted to get into my pants at that point. It was long before I let him.

"I'm almost ready," Becca tells me offhandedly. "You should get dressed."

I nod my head lazily even though she can't see it. Forcing myself up, I move to my closet, opening the doors. There are a lot of clothes in my closet, but half of them are Becca's. She likes to keep a lot of her things here. That way she doesn't always have to go back and forth.

I strip down until I'm bare and I grab a change of clean clothing. I'm lucky I don't have to dress up since I work with animals. There's always a chance of getting peed on or something. Some of the animals have to wear diapers.

When we're both ready for the day, I grab my keys and we leave. We hop in my car and I drop Becca off at work before heading to the shelter.

* * *

"Any adoptions?" I ask Stan when I arrive.

"No," he says sadly, "but someone dropped off a box of puppies - pit bulls."

"Fuckin' naturally," I mutter.

"People always abandon those poor dogs…" he murmurs.

"People are toads," I say simply.

I move behind the counter and slip through the back door. In the office, I punch in my numbers before getting to work. I try to be patient. I wear a smile the entire time. When people come in and want to play with the kittens and puppies, I let them. It's good for the animals, I guess. The staff can't do it all on their own. I just wish people would give a little more attention to the older animals and the deformed ones that will probably never get adopted.

I don't get why a person would hurt an animal. To your pet, you're their entire world. They depend on you. Only a sick freak would take advantage of that.

* * *

Mid-shift, Stan pulls me aside.

"Boss says we're going to have to put a dog down if he doesn't get adopted." He looks frantic. He's always too damn sensitive.

"Which one?" I ask.

He takes my sleeve and drags me towards a cage that most people tend to walk past. He points and the dog inside is an old black lab. He only has one ear and one eye. Half his face was bitten off by who-knows-what, but he's surprisingly even-tempered. He'd be a good pet and he probably still has a few years left in him.

"What's his name?" I ask.

"He doesn't even have one," Stan murmurs.

"Why don't you adopt it?"

"I live in an apartment with Marjorine… we can't have pets."

I let out a sigh. Since Stan looks like he's five minutes away from crying, I say, "If no one adopts him by the end of next week then I'll adopt him."

"Really?" he asks, looking hopeful.

"Yeah, really," I say.

I've always considered adopting a dog, but I never took the time to actually do it. I guess this is how I'd want to, though. I'd want to take the animal that was here the longest – one that didn't have much hope in getting adopted. Then I'd make it mine and give it a good home for however many years it has left.

He lets out a long sigh and smiles. "Thanks."

I roll my eyes and slap him on the shoulder. "Yeah, whatever."

* * *

Stan is off before me and when I return home I see him in my living room along with Kyle, Cartman and of course Kenny. They're all drunk. That much is clear, even without the empty beer cans.

"Hey!" Kenny greets me happily.

"Hi," I return flatly. I see enough of Stan at work and while we're civil, I really don't want to see him if I don't have to.

I turn away and head to my room. I hear Kenny tell his friends he'll _be right back_ and then he follows me upstairs. "Where's Red?" he asks.

"She's at a Take Back the Night march in North Park," I say. "I was gonna go, but I don't feel like being around people…"

I always do this. I always tell her I'm going to go support the causes she's passionate about, but then I don't. I get in these moods where social activity of any kind feels like a chore and I'm just not up for it because I'd rather stay at home and be depressed.

"My grandma is dying," I add as an afterthought. The words come out airy, like I'm only half aware.

Kenny's lips part. "Shit, dude… I'm sorry…"

"I need to go see her," I murmur, "but I haven't yet…"

"Man, I'll take you," Kenny offers.

"All right," I agree softly.

"Wanna go now?" he asks. "We can go now."

I shake my head. "Go have fun with your friends… We can go tomorrow afternoon. I'm off and I know your shifts are typically later."

He nods. "All right… Well, take it easy."

"That's the plan," I say.

He puts a hand on my shoulder, squeezing lightly before leaving the room and returning to his friends. When he's gone, I shrug out of my clothes. I probably smell like cats and dogs, so I decide to take a shower.

I cross the hall into the bathroom and turn the taps on, waiting for the water to get hot. Once it does, I step inside. I always put off showers, but when I'm in I never want to get out.

I grab my shampoo bottle, pouring some into my palm and then washing my hair. I close my eyes and zone out.

Whenever me and Becca shower together, she likes to wash my hair. It's not often because I like my shower time to be my alone time… Still, I can't deny that it feels nice, but at the same time it makes me feel like a child again. It feels like I'm in the bath and my mom is once again washing my hair.

Sometimes I think this is why I love Becca so much – because she's like my mom. Is that weird? I wonder. There's that old saying that says guys go for girls like their moms and girls go for guys like their dads. I guess it's pretty heteronormative, but maybe it rings a little truth. Kenny could probably relate in a way that is less heteronormative. He goes for the assholes who treat him rough like his dad.

I duck my head under the nozzle and rinse out the suds before grabbing the soap.

I think if Becca ever dumps me, I'll be single for the rest of my life. I find it so impossible to form new friendships and I'm sure a romantic relationship would be even more impossible. I haven't made a friend since I was a child. I always lose interest in people that haven't been in my life for a long time. I can't form new attachments. I get bored. It's always been this way. I have no interest in making friends now. It's too much work. I don't quite know how to connect to people, so it's easier to just spend my time with people I've known my entire life. Then I don't need to worry about forming connections, because they're already there.

When I'm done showering, I turn off the taps and step out. I dry off, wrapping a towel around my waist. I brush and floss my teeth before returning to my bedroom. I don't bother getting dressed. I just throw on a pair of shorts and decide to go to bed. I have nothing else to do and I want tomorrow to come quickly. Part of me wants to get it over with and part of me doesn't want it to end because I know it's not going to end well.

Fuck it.

* * *

When morning finally arrives, I force myself out of bed. I throw on a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt before leaving my room. Downstairs, Cartman is on the sofa. I'm assuming Kyle and Stan are in the guest room. In the kitchen, I see Kenny.

"You're not hung over, are you?" I ask.

"Nope, I'm feeling fresh as a daisy!" he says.

"Good," I murmur.

I try to eat something, but I'm just not hungry. I try to drink something, but I'm just not thirsty. My hands are shaking, but I ignore it.

"Want to go now?" Kenny offers.

I shrug my shoulders. "I suppose so," I say. "Is it fine to leave your friends here?"

"Yeah, they won't mind," he insists. "They probably won't be awake for a while. They all got pretty trashed."

Typical.

Without a word, I wander out of the room to put my shoes and coat on. Kenny follows, doing the same. I let him drive since I feel too distracted. I also feel a bit sick, but I know it's just from worrying.

It still doesn't feel quite real. I know it's inevitable that she's going to die, but part of me still doesn't believe it. I don't know how I'll react. I don't know if I'll even react. I'll probably just try to push it to the side like I do with most things. It's not healthy, but it's easier than making a scene.

It doesn't take us long to arrive at Hell's Pass. Inside, I walk to the front desk and ask to see her. A nurse arrives and walks me to the room. Kenny tags along, but when we reach the door he waits outside.

I don't see my parents and for that I'm glad. I don't want to see them. I honestly don't think I'm ready to see them.

I hear the beeping of monitors. She's hooked up to some machine. I don't know what it's doing. Her eyes are closed but when I move closer they open. She looks like she's already halfway gone.

"Hey, Nana," I say, trying to sound like I'm fine.

She smiles and holds out her hand. I take it, sitting at her bedside.

"Is it scary?" I ask. Maybe it's a fucked up question, but I can't help wondering.

"No," she says softly. She sounds so, so tired. "I'm old. I've lived a long, good life. I'm not afraid to leave it behind. When you get older you get wiser and you're no longer scared."

I nod my head, closing my eyes. I wonder if she's saying that purely for my sake or if she truly believes it.

"The hardest part will be leaving you and your sister and your mom and dad," she adds. She's still smiling. I don't know how she's doing it. I wish I could bring myself to smile, but I can't.

"Yeah," I say weakly.

"I'm proud of you," she tells me. She's the only one that ever says it to me.

"Yeah," I say again in that same, meek tone.

And she's quiet. Her eyes are closed and for a split second I think she's asleep, but then I realize she's not. Her hand goes limp in my hold and for a while, I just stare. I keep holding her hand until a nurse wanders in.

"She's gone," I say flatly, letting go.

My hands are shaking again – now worse than ever.

The nurse walks me out and I feel like I'm in a daze as she tries to comfort me. I sit on the floor and Kenny is there. He tries to force me up, but I don't budge.

I was right.

It still doesn't feel real.

I know I should cry and scream. I should do something. I should react…

But I'm not. I'm not doing anything.

Maybe I'm in shock.

Is this what shock feels like?

I don't feel anything. I know I'm supposed to feel something. If I was normal, I would feel something. Anything.

I don't want to be here anymore.

I force myself up. I feel dizzy, almost like I'm drunk but I know I'm not.

Kenny follows me out.

"Dude, you're in shock," he says.

I don't answer.

He takes my hand and pulls me towards the car when I try to leave the parking lot. I get in the passenger seat and he buckles me in. Kenny doesn't talk the entire time. He just drives.

I end up puking on myself when we reach the main road.

Kenny doesn't get mad.

When we pull into out driveway, he parks the car and gets out. He opens my door and walks me inside. I'm sweaty and nauseous.

Kenny drags me to the bathroom and turns on the shower taps. I lazily throw my clothes off, putting them straight in the washing machine before stepping in the shower.

"Want me to call Becca?" Kenny asks me.

"No…" I murmur back.

He disappears after that.

I rinse myself off, feeling groggy. When I'm done, I am quick to dry off. In my bedroom, I kill the lights and move towards the window. Outside, I see Kenny down below washing my car.

I'll thank him for it later on. I don't want to be awake right now.

I close the curtains and turn away, burrowing beneath the sheets on my bed without bothering to put my clothes on.

* * *

Becca comes over later in the night. When I wake up, she's sleeping next to me. I'm relieved to see her. I debate on shaking her awake, but I don't. Instead, I just watch her sleep for a few minutes before drifting off again.

* * *

The funeral takes place a few days later. Clyde, Becca and Kenny all come with me to the service. It's a big ceremony. I'm surprised how many people my grandmother knew.

I stand in the front with my parents. None of them say anything. I wonder if they know I was there when she died. A doctor probably told them. I wonder if they're mad I didn't wait for them to come to the hospital. Probably.

Ruby is crying, but she's the only one. My parents probably did their crying at home.

I feel like I'm in a daze the entire time. I watch them lower her into the grave and none of it feels real. I feel like I'm stepping out of my body, watching a funeral but not taking part in it.

People come up and give us their sympathies. I nod my head at each queue and, after countless apologies, I begin to get sick of it. I can feel myself growing impatient and restless. I want to leave. I want to run.

"Sorry for your –" another person begins.

"Shut up," I respond mechanically before I can stop myself.

"Craig," my mom hisses at me while my dad lets out a weary scoff.

I close my eyes and begin ignoring everyone. I don't want to look at these people anymore – these strangers, most of who I've never even met. I don't care that they're sorry.

Eventually, I feel a hand on my shoulder. When I open my eyes, my mom is staring at me. "Do you want to come back to the house?" she asks.

"No," I say and my voice comes out weak. It surprises me.

I don't want to be in a house full of people talking about the good times they've had with my dead grandmother. I don't even want to think about her right now. It fucking hurts too much.

"About the will –" she starts.

"I don't care about that," I whisper.

When people begin piling into cars, I leave.

I'm still in my suit. I wander around town when the funeral is over. Kenny, Becca and Clyde follow a few feet behind me. It doesn't make a difference if I miss the reception. She's gone and it's over. It's done. There's nothing left to do now. I've paid my respects. Now I just have to move on.

How? I don't know. It was hard enough losing my grandfather. Now my grandmother is gone.

At least they're together again.

I start sniffling halfway home, but I don't cry. When I'm inside, I wipe my nose on my sleeve and head to my room.

Naturally, everyone follows after me. I ignore them. I take off my coat, unbuttoning my shirt and tossing it to the floor before reaching for my pants. Clyde averts his eyes, but Kenny and Becca gaze on with pity.

Becca moves to my closet, getting a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. She hands them to me and I put them on. I feel like I'm moving mechanically.

Once I'm dressed, I pause and put a hand over my mouth. I close my eyes, taking a series of deep breaths.

Not gonna cry.

 _Not_ gonna cry…

After a few minutes, I let my hand fall. I open my eyes and say, "I'm fine. You guys don't need to linger."

"Craig –" Clyde is the first to cut in.

I hold up my hand, cutting him off. "Honestly," I insist. "I think I'm just going to take a nap. You guys can hang around downstairs if you want, but I'm going to sleep."

They look hesitant, but they relent and let me be. For that, I'm glad.

She's gone. We buried her, but it still doesn't feel real. I don't know how to make it feel real.

I should have told her I loved her when I saw her in the hospital.

Then again, she probably knew it. I don't think I had to say it.

* * *

By the time I wake up, it's dark outside.

I make my way downstairs. Becca and Clyde are nowhere in sight. There's just Kenny. "Hey," he says.

"Hey," I echo.

"Red and Clyde went home," he adds.

"Yeah, I assumed so," I murmur. I move into the room and sit next to him on the sofa.

"You'll be okay, dude," he tells me, putting a hand on my shoulder. "You're not now and that's fine… because you will be."

"Yeah?" I ask. "How do you know?"

"I'm kind of a psychic," he says with a wink.

I roll my eyes at him. "All right, I'll humour you," I respond. "Tell me about my future, Mr. Psychic."

"You sure you wanna know?" he teases.

"Go for it," I say. "Tell me."

"Gimme your hand," Kenny says.

I do so and I let him examine my palm. I try to refrain from laughing or anything. I don't really know how someone can pull information out of the lines on someone's hand, but whatever. I watch him as he does it and after a minute he closes his eyes, still pressing against my palm with is thumbs. He presses harder and harder until –

"Ow…" I say. "That hurts, asshole."

He doesn't respond. His eyes are still closed and his brow tightens along with his grip.

"Fuck!" I shout, tearing my hand out of his hold.

He opens his eyes and accuses, "You didn't let me finish."

"Because you were fucking hurting me, you cocksucker!" I bite out.

"Well, did you think it'd be easy?" he asks.

I roll my eyes at him. "Quite a show, _McCormick_."

"Ooh, you're using my last name," he points out. "You must be pissed. Well, do you want to hear what I learned?"

"Suuuure," I say, not buying it for a second.

"You're not going to die," he tells me, "but someone else will."

I tilt my head to the side. "What the fuck do you mean by that? Someone _just_ died, you bitch."

"Not your grandma," he says.

"Then who?" I ask dully.

"You always talk about death like it's something you'd welcome," Kenny says, sounding somewhat offhanded. "It's something you think about a lot. It's something heavy on your mind…. But don't bother trying. If you do, you'll live and then you'll be twice as bitter. An external force will save you and you'll feel like a failure."

"Who is going to die?" I ask again.

"I don't know yet," he says. "You didn't let me finish. I can find out if you want?"

I frown at that. "You know what? No. Fuck you." He doesn't react. He just stares at me. "My grandmother just died and you pull shit like this?"

"You let me, Craig," he reminds me. "You didn't have to if you didn't want to know."

"This isn't funny anymore," I tell him, standing up. When I try to move away, he grabs my wrist.

"It's not supposed to be funny, Craig. I'm trying to _help_ you."

"Let go of me, prick!" I snap, shaking him off. "God! I hope it's _you_ that dies!"

I stomp away after that and go to my room, locking the door. I know he won't bother me for the rest of the night. He'll give me room to breathe and he'll come back the next day. He always does because he knows me. He knows I need time to stop being angry. He knows I'll be fine the next day. He knows I'm too spiteful to make the first move. He knows I won't apologize first after a fight, even if I'm the one at fault. He knows I'm an insufferable asshole and he still sticks around.

I don't really want him to die. I think if he did I'd fucking lose my mind.

* * *

I spend the next day in bed after the reading of the will. My grandmother left me some things, but I'm not allowed to have any of it. I didn't bother trying to argue with my parents about it. I know they probably want to wait until I'm more stable and by stable I mean… sober.

I'll let it go for now. I have other things to do. Distractions. I have work, though I don't really want to think about it. I have today off, luckily. I'm debating using some of my vacations days so I can take it easy.

Around noon, Kenny opens my door and walks into my room. "Did you cry yet?" he asks me.

"No," I tell him flatly.

"You should," he says. "I don't get why so many guys refuse to cry."

"It's not that I'm refusing to," I respond, sitting up groggily. "I can't cry. Even if I wanted to."

"I think you're lying," he points out. "You don't want to cry and that's why you can't. It's not the other way around, dude. I saw you sniffling yesterday. You were physically ready to cry, but you weren't mentally ready. I think you need to cry. You need to let out all the shit you're bottling up. It's gonna fucking kill you."

I roll my eyes at him. He's being fucking dramatic.

"Maybe this is why men don't live as long as women," he muses before chuckling at the thought. "We're always bottling our emotions up. It can't be healthy, can it?"

"Whatever," I mutter. I'm really not in the mood to talk about this shit.

He sits down across from me on the mattress and stares at me with wide saucer-like eyes. "Cry!"

"No," I say, sounding as dull as I feel.

He moves forward, pushing me over and lying on top of me. "You're a strange guy."

"Back at'cha."

He pauses and then says, "Y'know, your morning breath isn't that gross."

"Ugh," I groan, pushing him off of me. "Dumbass, don't say shit like that."

He rolls over and lies down next to me, laughing. "I guess I wouldn't care even if you did stink. Nothing you do grosses me out. I mean, I did clean your puke, after all. Not that it's anything new… It wasn't that bad."

"How very," I say. "Thanks, I guess." I can feel him staring at me, but I don't stare back. I keep my head turned up at the ceiling. I'm not staring at anything in particular. I guess I'm just trying to concentrate on all the speckles and spots. "When did you lose your virginity?" I ask Kenny, still staring up.

"Hm…" he muses. "I was twelve. I know that's pretty young and I definitely should've waited. I think back on it and cringe at how damn desperate I was to lose it… Anyway, it was with Tammy, that girl I used to date. She was sweet. I still see her around town sometimes. She settled down with Steven Tamil. They have a kid."

"Hm," I murmur thoughtfully. "When was your first time with a guy?"

Kenny lets out a bitter laugh. "God, I hate that fucking story…"

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," I say, finally choosing to glance at him.

He shakes his head. "No, it's all right. It's just… really fucked up." He pauses, pressing the back of his hand to his lips and looking contemplative. His eyebrows draw together and he lets out a sigh, letting his hands fall to his side. "All right, so I was fourteen. I was kind of curious, so I brought a guy home to do stuff with. It was all fine, so fine that I didn't hear my parents come home. So, they caught me with a dick in my ass. They started freaking the fuck out. The guy didn't stick around. Anyway, my parents took me into the bathroom and my dad held me down while my mom gave me an enema to try and, like, clean me or whatever I guess 'cause they thought what I was doing was dirty and sinful."

I feel my lips part and for a minute I can't bring myself to say anything because it's such a fucked up thing to do. "Sorry…" is all I can muster up.

He smiles and shrugs. "It's okay… I mean, that's the worst thing they've ever done to me and it only happened once. Funny, though… My parents thought it was so immoral of me to be taking a dick, but they're worse… My mom had Kevin when she was twelve. My dad was already, like, twenty-eight. That's fucked up, right? That's immoral… that's wrong…" He shrugs again and then says, "Whatever, though. They're cliché bible-toting, white-trash rednecks."

"Sorry," I say once more. "I kind of understand," I decide to tell him.

"How?" he asks.

"My uncle did stuff to me when I was fourteen," I confess, staring away again. "He's also where he belongs now."

Kenny frowns and nods his head. There's no pity in his gaze and for that I'm glad. "People are so shitty…" he says. "I'm sorry."

"Mm…" I agree. "It was my first time. I mean, I didn't think my first time would be anything particularly memorable or special, but I didn't think it'd be like that either. I hadn't even been kissed before he started slobbering all over me. I always tell Becca she's my first of everything and I want to believe that she truly is, but I can't really. It's harder than that. It isn't something I can forget or brush to the side."

"Yeah," Kenny says gently. "That's the worst kind of violence there is. Does Red know about it?"

"Yeah, I told her," I admit, rolling over so I can see him better. "It was weird. It was a nonchalant confession that came out of the blue. I don't really know what made me say it. I guess I just wanted to. I felt like she deserved to know. I don't want to keep secrets from her… Then again, maybe I was just trying to compensate for the fact that I'm cheating on her with you."

Kenny smiles a small smile. "We can stop."

"I don't want to," I tell him.

"Why?" he asks.

"I don't know," I say.

He doesn't pry. "So, do you have any triggers? I don't want to, like, cause you any grief…"

I shrug. "I haven't really thought much about it… I guess not. I can watch _Game of Thrones_ or something as equally vile and rapey without freaking out. It just pops into my head a lot. Sometimes I dream about it. Sometimes I think about it when I'm having sex and I go soft. Uh, hm… When you asked me when the last time I cried was… I said family problems, but it was actually the day my uncle was arrested. I don't even know why the fuck I was crying… Anyway, that's why I left the room so suddenly after we fucked. I felt kind of disgusting because I kept thinking about it. Weird things trigger the thoughts to appear."

Kenny frowns, nodding his head along to what I'm saying. "I'm sorry you had to go through all that shit, dude…"

"I can talk about it and think about it without wanting to fucking kill myself, but it still sucks," I murmur. I feel like I am constantly choking on the memory. It's so gross. It's like vomit, but it never quite comes out so I just swallow over and over and over again.

"Yeah, I know," Kenny says.

"Honestly, I don't even think this is why I'm emotionally unstable or whatever, though…" I add. "I think I've just always been that way. I mean, I'm adopted, so I can't really be sure… but maybe it's genetic. I guess I could cry about all the shit that happened, but it wouldn't make a difference, would it? Nothing would change."

"No," Kenny relents, "but maybe you'd feel better."

"It doesn't matter," I say. "I'm always up and down, it doesn't matter what I do. I'd rather just… get high."

"I wish you wouldn't," Kenny mumbles. He sits up and stares down at me. "I've seen firsthand what the hard shit does to people. My parents fucking wrecked themselves on that crap."

"I stay in control," I insist.

Kenny rolls his eyes. "Dude, that's what everyone says… but it's bullshit. You can't stay in control when you're doing shit like meth and heroin and whatever else. Even if you're not addicted… you will be and then all that'll matter is getting your next fix."

"Whatever," I mutter.

"People do stupid things when they're trapped," Kenny says. "They feel like there's no way out, so they try to force things that don't make sense."

"I feel like I do that a lot," I admit, "but I never thought it was because I felt trapped."

"Then why?" he pries.

"I never thought about it," I say. "I mean… I never _let_ myself think about it, so maybe it is because I feel trapped a lot."

"Probably," Kenny agrees bluntly. "I mean… You've been through a lot and you kind of ignore it all."

"It's easier," I say.

"Is it really, though?"

I scoff. "Probably not."

* * *

After a depressingly eventful string of days, the dog is mine. I kind of knew it would be. I kind of knew no one was going to swoop in and adopt a dog with only half a face.

It's okay. I'll take him and I'll make sure he's happy.

"Sorry about your grandmother," Stan says to me. "Kenny told me."

"Whatever," I respond.

"I know what it's like," he continues. "I lost all my grandparents."

"Sucks," I say.

Since I'm using up some of my vacation days to try and recuperate, I'm just here filling out the adoption forms. Stan hovers over my shoulder the entire time.

"What are you going to name him?" Stan asks me, changing the subject. He probably knows I don't want to talk about my grandmother.

"I don't know," I admit. "You pick a name. I'm not that creative."

"Name him Uno since he only has one eye," Stan suggests.

I snort at that. "All right, Uno it is."

So, with that, I finish filling out the papers and I take him home.


	3. A struggle

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

* * *

I'm back at work, even though I don't want to be. I feel like every little thing is setting me off and I have to try so fucking hard to keep myself calm. I want to reach forward and choke every stupid asshole that even looks at me.

"Cool it," Stan warns me. "You're scaring everyone."

"Shut up," I mutter.

I try to remain quiet for the rest of my shift. I don't want to get in trouble. I definitely can't afford to lose this job. I like this job. It's easy and pleasant enough. I can't see myself doing anything else.

When I go home, I shower right away to get rid of the wet-dog stink. This is the only con to working with animals – I always end up smelling like them.

I put on plaid pajama pants and a plain, black t-shirt before going downstairs. Kenny is in the kitchen making soup. He offers me some. I'm not particularly hungry, but I decide to force some down anyway. I go through these phases where I have no appetite. Then I go through other phases where I eat like a horse.

At least Kenny is a good cook – far better than I ever was.

Afterward, I lock myself in my room and get high. Becca comes over later in the night and we do it all again.

We lie side by side and for a while it's quiet. We just soak up the feeling and we soak up each other. Then, out of the blue –

"Maybe we should slow down."

"Why?" I ask, turning my head to face her.

"Well… we've been doing this a lot since your grandmother died," she points out cautiously.

I scoff at her, ready to lash out. "It's _not_ because of that!" I tell her sharply.

She isn't taken aback by my outburst. By now, she's used to them. "All right," she says. "Chill out. Shit." A pause. "Then what the hell is it?"

I sit up and let out a loud, whiny groan, rubbing my hands up and down my face. "It's nothing… I just feel shitty."

"Because of your Nan?"

"Stop saying that!" I shout, turning to look at her. I get out of bed and stomp out of the room. She follows, asking me where I'm going. I don't answer her. I just grab my coat and put on my shoes. Then I grab the dog, which makes it obvious where I'm going.

"The dog is in pretty rough shape," Becca says softly. "Why didn't you get a cuter one?"

"I didn't want a cuter one," I tell her. I stare down at him, hooking the leash to his collar. He stares back at me with his one eye. I don't think he's ugly, but looking at him makes me kind of sad and that just makes me want to ensure his happiness. I put my hand on his head, petting him. "He's cute enough."

With that, I leave. Becca will still be there when I return.

It's dim outside and the streetlights are already on. I stare up at the moon. It's full tonight. All the crazies are probably down at the bar by now. Then again, maybe not. Maybe some of them are like me, just drifting.

I don't like thinking of myself as crazy, but sometimes I act it. It's like that book – _Sometimes I Act Crazy_.

Since I refused therapy, the doctor who gave me my diagnosis told me to do a bit of reading instead. She gave me a bunch of titles and I went to the book store and bought them. I felt like I was reading my autobiography, all the nasty, negative things about myself that everyone hates. I take everything so personally. I'm so defensive. I can criticize myself, but the second someone else criticizes me I'm a hundred percent ready to flip out on them. There's never room to reason with me. I recognize all this stuff and I think I'll be able to put the knowledge to use, but when the time comes I can't and I end up having a fit. It's like my mind goes blank apart from what I'm currently scared of or worried about. Reason is lost to the wind.

I walk Uno down the road and let him take a shit on Eric Cartman's lawn. When he's done, I continue walking down the street. When I'm about to pass my parents' home, the door swings open and Ruby exits. I pause when I see her and she pauses when she sees me. Then she locks the door and slowly walks down the driveway to meet me.

She looks like she's headed to a party, though it's a school night. She's probably in with an older crowd. I hate the thought of my little sister being around creepy frat boys, but I can't really tell her how to live her life. That would make me a fucking hypocrite. Plus, I haven't been around.

"Hey…" she says. "Long time."

"Hey," I echo.

"You got a dog," she notes, staring down at Uno before petting his head.

"No one else wanted him," I explain.

"That was nice of you."

"I guess," I say with a shrug. Then it's quiet – uncomfortably so. "Uh, anyway…" I start.

"Yeah, I gotta go," she finishes.

"Be safe," I say out of the blue.

She smiles and nods, waving before turning around and walking the opposite direction.

I make my way back home, unhooking the leash from the dog's collar. He runs upstairs. I take my coat and shoes off before following.

Becca is in my room playing with her phone while she sits on my bed. "Feeling better?" she asks.

"I guess," I say, though I'm not quite sure. "I saw my sister."

Becca sets her phone down and glances up at me. "How was it?"

I join her on the mattress and shrug. "Okay. Kind of weird. We didn't really say much. I think she was going to a party. I told her to be safe."

Uno jumps on the bed and sits on my lap. Sometimes I think big dogs forget how big they are. Nonetheless, I put my arms around him.

"You're more affectionate with that dog than you are with me," Becca says.

"Jealous?" I ask sweetly, resting my cheek against the dog's fur.

"Maybe," she admits with a chuckle.

"Well," I start, "he needs affection. He was treated like shit before he got to the shelter and even after that people didn't want to play with him because he's mangled. Only the staff played with him and our time was limited."

She smiles at me and coos, "Aw. I like this. I'm seeing the soft side of Craig Tucker."

* * *

Becca leaves at some point in the night, saying she works early. The stupid video store is open 24-hours a day, which is a ridiculous idea because it hardly gets any business.

Around noon, Kenny makes his way into my room. He looks chipper and energetic. "No work today?" he asks.

"No," I respond groggily.

"What do you wanna do?" Kenny asks. "Fuck?"

"No…" I groan, rolling over in bed.

"Dude, you're strung out," he says, sitting down on the edge of my bed. "When are you gonna stop doing drugs?"

"When I'm dead," I spit out.

He clicks his tongue at me. "Tsk, dude, I already told you that you're not going to die. At least not any time soon."

"And I already told you that I don't believe you," I retort.

He frowns, glancing away and staring down at his hands. "If I asked you, would you quit? I mean… if I really pleaded with you? Like, we could come up with some compromise. I'll give up something and you'll give up drugs… or whatever… I'd do anything you wanted me to…"

I force myself up into a sitting position. "Sorry, Kenny. That's not how it works and you know it. I can't quit for you. I'd have to do it for me and that's not gonna happen any time soon."

"Yeah," he murmurs. "Well… I thought I'd try." He stares at me and smiles, but I can tell it's forced because he looks fucking miserable. "Hey," he says offhandedly, "is there anything you like about me?"

"Sure," I say, "lots of things."

"Like what?" he asks, prying for details.

"I like your eyes," I tell him.

"But why? They're the same color as yours."

"It's not just the color…" I explain. "They're blue, sure, and that's nice… but they're also big and expressive and, I dunno, I guess I like that. They're brighter than mine are. Mine look kind of dim in comparison."

My eyes are just tired. I have dark circles and bags and I look like I haven't slept in ten years. Kenny's look young and curious and innocent.

"Thanks," he says, sounding sincere. "Sorry… I guess I'm just in the mood for some reassurance."

I don't think people compliment him much. If they do, they're senseless compliments. He probably hears a lot of shit like, " _You give good head_ ," or, " _You're good in bed_." Those compliments aren't really compliments at all. They don't mean anything.

"It's okay," I tell him. "I need reassurance often, too… but most people know that by now so I hardly have to ask for it." I shrug unceremoniously. "I'm a manipulative asshole. People always say it about me and I guess they're right. I'm always twisting things around and trying to pull reactions out of people. I try to make them say certain things. I'm pretty good with the guilt trips, too."

Kenny wrinkles his nose. "I just don't think they understand," he says. "People with BPD get a bad rep."

"Hm," I muse.

"I think you're also at a risk of being manipulated."

"Yeah, maybe," I say, wondering if he's right.

Kenny smiles a small smile.

He loves me.

I always feel it when he looks at me and maybe I take advantage of him for it. I feel reassured. I don't do it to be cruel, but I'm selfish because I'm insecure. Kenny offers me stability in life and stability in my sense of identity – which is often distorted. Kenny doesn't let me manipulate him. He never budges or changes. Becca does. She moves when I want her to and she's forced herself to change parts of herself for me. That's why she can't ever offer me the kind of stability Kenny does.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks me.

"You," I confess. "Good things about you."

Before he can say something sappy in response, I get out of bed and tell him I'm going to shower. I move across the hall and turn on the taps, stripping and stepping into the shower.

I don't know why I felt like I had to leave before he could respond, but I did. Sometimes when he gets sappy or emotional it stresses me out and makes me feel even guiltier than I feel on a regular basis. I feel like I'm giving him false hope. I'm not even trying to. Sometimes these things just pop out of my mouth.

After a while, I hear the door open. I pull back the curtains slightly and see Kenny begin to undress. "What the fuck?" I ask him. " _I'm_ in here!"

"You're going to use up all the hot water like you always do," he points out, "and I work tonight." Once he's naked, he pushes me aside and steps into the shower with me.

"What the fuck?" I deadpan.

"Chill," he says. "It's not like I haven't seen you naked before. In fact, I've licked your butthole. So, this really isn't any worse."

"Yes, it is," I insist, though it makes no sense. I like my shower time to be private on most days. I don't know why, but I do a lot of thinking when I'm in the shower. I end up distracted. That's probably why I take so long.

"Well, sure, this time my boner isn't in your ass," he says crudely, "but apart from that…"

" _I've_ fucked _you_ before," I point out.

"Yeah," he relents unceremoniously, "but we both know you prefer it on the bottom. You're a natural."

He sits on the edge of the tub while I shower on the opposite end. He grabs the shaving cream and lathers it all over his right leg.

"I've never seen a dude shave before," I say, distracted by the unfamiliarity of it all.

Kenny eyes me and snorts, "Clearly."

I raise a leg and kick him.

"Ouch…" he whines. "Don't distract me or I'll nick myself," he warns. "Besides, I'm just playing around. I like you with pubes. They're cute."

"Cute?" I repeat in disbelief.

He snickers. "Yeah, cute. Everything about you is pretty cute. I don't know, there's something really aesthetically appealing about thick, dark hair. I like your hair, all of it."

"Weirdo," I say. "Is it annoying?"

"Shaving? A bit," he admits. "I'd rather not shave, but it's fine. Work is work and this is just part of the job. I just need to be careful, otherwise I'll get razor burn and that's not fun. I get better tips if I'm smooth, though… So, it's worth it."

I nod my head slowly, soaping and rinsing myself off. I continue watching him, somewhat fascinated with the entire ordeal. Sure, I've seen Becca shave her legs before. I guess this isn't much different than that. Hell, I've even seen her go months _without_ shaving. Not that I really care about that. It's just hair. If I don't shave, I'm definitely not going to ask my girlfriend to shave. Fair is fair.

Soon, he finishes. I step out of the shower, giving him room to rinse off and wash his hair. I dry off lazily before slipping into a pair of boxer shorts. I wipe the condensation off the mirror and stare at myself. There's faint stubble on my chin and above my lip, but I'll take care of that tomorrow.

A couple minutes later, Kenny steps out of the shower. I turn around and watch him dry off. He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively when he catches me staring. "Get a good look?" he asks as he pulls his sweatpants back on.

I roll my eyes at him. Once he's modest, I open the door. When we step out of the bathroom together, Becca is coming up the stairs. I nearly have an aneurism. She gives us both an odd look and asks, "Did you guys just shower together or something?"

"Yeah," I admit, remaining calm. "We're low on hot water."

"I did a load of laundry and Craig likes taking hour long showers," Kenny adds unceremoniously. "I gotta work tonight, so I needed to wash up and shave."

Becca nods her head slowly, smiling slightly. "You guys are funny." Without another word she walks into my bedroom. I part ways with Kenny and follow after her. "So…" she starts, making herself comfortable on my bed, "you had a shower with Kenny?"

"Yeah," I say.

"Was it weird?" she asks, clearly humoured.

"Not particularly," I admit. "I washed my hair, he shaved his legs. That was that."

"Well, that's good. I'm glad you have a friend like him. You seem pretty comfortable around each other."

I nod my head. "We are."

"Do you talk to him a lot?" she asks. "Do you talk to him more than you talk to me?"

"Shit, I don't fucking know…" I tell her, but that's a lie. I do talk to Kenny more than I talk to Becca.

She frowns. She probably knows that I'm lying. I can tell by what comes next: "How comfortable are you around me, Craig?"

I move to my closet and pull out a clean shirt – long sleeved and navy blue. I put it on and then reach for a pair of plaid, red pajama pants, pulling them over my shorts. "I'm comfortable," I tell her once I'm dressed. I turn around and add, "You're my girlfriend."

"Yeah, but… sometimes you just act so reserved," she murmurs.

"Is this because I won't let you fuck me up the ass?" I ask dully.

She lets out an impatient sigh and says, "No, Craig. That's not the issue here. I haven't even brought that up since you were honest with me about why you didn't want to do it. I'm respecting your boundaries."

"Then what the fuck are you saying?" I grit out.

"I'm saying… I feel like we're in a slump," she murmurs. "We've been together for, what, nearly seven years?"

"W-wait," I stutter out, feeling panicked. I feel my eyebrows knit together as I try to comprehend where this might be coming from… but I can't. I don't understand. My heart feels like it jumped up my throat and now it's stuck.

"Craig, I'm –" she starts, but I cut her off.

"Don't!" I shout, holding a shaky hand up. I don't want her to say it's over. I don't think I'll be able to handle hearing her say it.

"Craig, for fuck's sake, I'm _not_ dumping you!" she shouts back, sounding impatient. "So, calm down!"

I stare at her. "Oh," I say weakly.

"I just… I want you to try harder," she tells me gently. "I'm an open book. I mean, I share everything with you – even the boring stuff… but you aren't like that. You don't even tell me the normal stuff unless I ask. You have all these secrets. I've known you my entire life, but I'm still learning things I should have known. I feel like, at times, you're so damn far away. I can't even reach you. We haven't had sex in a while. All we do is get high together. You never want to talk. You were doing so well a while back. You were telling me things – important things… and now you're being so quiet again."

She wants all the parts of me that remain untouched and I don't know how to tell her that if I give her all these parts, then there won't be anything left of me. I need to keep them for myself. I need to keep them safe, because if I keep them safe then I keep myself safe. I want to push away prying hands – the hands of people like my uncle. He reached in and messed me up. I feel like he left me lying there with my guts flopping out all over the damn place.

When you open yourself up to people you're supposed to trust, they can take advantage. Maybe it's inevitable. Maybe that's why I can't trust people completely. He ruined that.

So, for a while I am silent and contemplative. I don't want to disappoint her and I don't want her to leave, but I am too scared to give her what she's asking for.

"I'll try harder," I murmur quietly.

She nods her head. "See? That's all I ask." She pats the place on the bed next to her and I finally move to join her. She wraps her arms around me and keeps me close for several minutes. "How do you feel right now?" she asks.

"Relieved," I respond. "I thought you were gonna dump me."

"I love you," she says simply.

"I love you, too," I echo.

* * *

The following morning I wake up lying against Becca. She's still wearing her day clothes – jeans and a blouse. She'll have stubborn creases against her skin when she finally takes them off.

For a few minutes, I don't move. I just stay still. I move my hand and place my palm against her chest, feeling her heart beats.

It scared me when I thought she was going to break up with me. It scared me a lot. I know what she expects from me, but it feels like a fucking impossible task. I'm always stifling myself, even around the people I'm supposed to trust. I guess what it boils down to is that there's no one I trust completely – not Kenny, not Becca, not Clyde.

If I really trusted Kenny, I wouldn't hold back when we fuck. I'd be loud, encouraging, less rigid.

If I really trusted Becca, I would tell her how I feel. I'd be more expressive – in and out of bed. I'd probably spread my fucking ass cheeks and let her stick a plastic dick up my hole.

If I trusted Clyde, I would tell him I'm a cheating sack of shit. I'd ask him for advice. He'd give me some and I'd take it.

If I trusted myself, I wouldn't need the drugs. I'd feel safe in my own mind… but I don't. I wouldn't need to flip flop between Kenny and Becca. I wouldn't cheat on the girl I love with the guy who is in love with me.

Eventually, Becca stirs and sits up.

"Sorry I freaked out at you last night," I murmur.

She turns around and stares down at me where I'm lying. "It's okay, Craig. I feel like I pushed you," she admits. "I mean… Shit, this is going to sound fucking vile, but I _know_ you don't take rejection or _perceived_ rejection particularly well. I've read enough on BPD to know some of the major points. So, I thought I'd try to scare you. I mean, I knew you'd get scared. I was just sick of your lack of expression… but then I felt guilty and I knew what I was trying to do was pretty fucked up."

I frown at her, sitting up. "Why would you do that?"

"Because I'm fucking desperate," she mumbles. "I want you to open up. I want to see all the parts of you. So… I guess I tried to force it."

"And people call _me_ manipulative…" I mutter, scoffing in disbelief.

"I know," she says, letting out a breath. "I'm sorry…"

I shrug my shoulders. "Whatever." I reach behind her and into my nightstand, pulling out my box of drug paraphernalia.

"Is this what we're doing today?" she asks.

"Yes," I decide.

* * *

The following few days are work, work, work. I buy dog food after my latest shift and return home, filling Uno's bowl before taking him for a walk.

I feel like shit lately – physically and mentally. It's bordering on suicidal. I haven't felt this down in a while. I forgot how crummy it is. I definitely didn't miss it. I feel really out of it, like I'm just moving mechanically – doing the things I know I'm supposed to do, the things I've done enough times to know back to back. I have some cognitive impairment, but my short term memory is really poor lately. I can hardly remember what I did the day before.

Usually when I feel bad I try to remind myself that soon enough I'll feel good again, but it's not working because this mood is persistent. I feel heavy.

Becca and Kenny keep asking me if I'm all right. I tell them I'm fine for a while, but then I remember I'm supposed to be being honest. So, I tell Becca I want to fucking kill myself and she gets upset. Then I remember why I never tell people shit like this. They make it all about them.

"You'd kill yourself and leave me?" she asks, getting emotional.

"It's not about you," I tell her. "It's about me."

"It's always about you, isn't it?" she murmurs.

"No, but right now it is," I say.

No one fucking gets it.

* * *

I haven't been running. I don't have the energy to run. I'm not sure if it's the drugs or the depression. Maybe it's both, neither more overbearing than the other.

Everything feels like a chore – waking up, getting out of bed, showering, eating, going to work, seeing people, talking to people, driving, walking, moving, thinking, breathing. I hate to do it all while trying to keep my emotions in check.

On Friday night, I end up at the bar. I don't want to go home just yet. I know Becca and Kenny will be there waiting for me and I don't want to see either of them.

When I step inside, I see Marjorine and Stan sitting across from each other in a booth in the corner of the room. She's laughing at whatever it is Stan is saying. She looks good. Happy – a lot happier than she looked back in high school. She's wearing jeans and a floral print sweater under her unzipped jacket and her hair is down slightly past her shoulders. She started wearing it longer when she got away from her parents. I hear they only made things worse. Kenny always said that they were abusive as hell. Now she shares a place with Stan.

People in this town tend to keep the same friends for their entire lives. That's how it is in small towns.

When they spot me, they both wave me over… not really sure why. Nonetheless, I make my way across the room and say, "Hey."

"Hey," Marjorine says.

"Hey," Stan repeats. "How are you? Kenny is worried."

"I'm not trying to worry him," I point out.

"I know," Stan says. He pats the seat next to him, telling me to sit down. Once I do, he continues with, "People don't get that it isn't about them."

"Exactly," I respond.

"When I got diagnosed with childhood depression, all my friends kind of ditched me for a while because they were sick of me being negative. They thought I was just trying to bring them down. I wasn't. I was just… Well, I was just fucking depressed. Wendy is the only one who didn't basically tell me to fuck off." He shrugs and laughs.

"Oh," I murmur. "I didn't know any of that."

"I'm lucky," he says with another shrug. "My medication works wonders, so depression doesn't really take over my life the way it used to. Yeah, I still struggle, but I do all right."

"That's good," is all I muster up.

"Anyway," Stan changes the subject, slapping me on the back. "I'll order a round of drinks."

I debate on excusing myself, but I decide against it. He slips past me and I sit quietly with Marjorine. I want to say something to ease the tension, but I don't know what to say. We've never really been friends.

She laughs, probably reading how uneasy I am. "You know, you used to scare me back when we were in school."

"Sorry," I murmur back.

She shakes her head. "You were like… the troublemaker that everyone knew _of_ but no one really _knew_."

"Honestly, I think I'm still like that," I admit. "I push people away. I keep everyone at a distance, even the people I'm supposed to be closest with."

"Why?" she pries.

"I don't know," I confess. "Trust issues, I guess." I pause, knocking my knuckles against the table before. I feel my eyebrows knit together. "Look…" I breathe shakily, "I, um, I know I used to be a shitty guy… and I'm really sorry if I ever made things hard for you… I think I tried to make things hard for a lot of people because it made me feel better about my own life."

She smiles at me and says, "Don't worry. You never made me feel that way. I think you were one of the few people to leave me alone."

"People can be mean," I tell her.

"Yeah," she agrees.

"So, um..." I continue, trying to keep the conversation rolling. "Are you still seeing that Raisin's girl?"

Marjorine chuckles and says, "Yeah." A second later she holds out her hand, revealing a ring. "We're engaged. She stayed with me through my transition. I really love her."

I smile at that. "Congrats."

Stan returns a minute later with three beers and we all drink.

Around midnight, I return home pleasantly drunk but nowhere near wasted. It takes the edge off when Becca and Kenny start asking me where I've been. I tell them I was at the bar. They ask who I was with. I tell them Stan and Marjorine. They seem satisfied with that much.

* * *

Things get worse towards the end of the month when I accidentally overdose. Then again, maybe it wasn't quite an accident.

I wake up in a hospital with an IV. Naloxone, I'm guessing.

Becca is crying. Kenny looked pissed. My parents are here, too. They are disappointed, I can tell.

I turn my head to the side, not wanting to look at any of them. At least there are no cops.

My dad is the first one to speak. "So, you're on drugs now?" he says to me. Then, to my mom, he adds, "We shouldn't have let him move out."

I don't respond. I close my eyes and ignore them all until they go away, but I know they'll be back. I hear their footsteps disappear and when I open my eyes, Becca is the only one left.

Her arms are crossed and she's staring at me with a look of pity mixed with anger. Her eyes are puffy and her nose is red. "What the hell are we doing, Craig?" she asks me wearily. "Where do we even go from here? Do you expect me to just brush this aside and forget about it? Well, I can't do that." A pause. "Why choose death when you can choose life? Isn't it better to feel something than to feel nothing and cease to exist? I don't get it…"

"You can't understand it," I tell her, speaking hoarsely. "You're not like me. Your brain is… normal. Mine isn't. Mine is all… fucked. I mean, come on, you've done enough reading to understand that something like this was inevitable."

She lets out a shuddery breath. "I didn't want to believe you'd ever try something like this… It doesn't suit the kind of person you are on your good days… the days when you're just you and you're not taken over by your negative emotions."

"They're a part of me," I explain. I force myself into a sitting position and add, "All the bad has to come with the good."

"Why did this have to happen?" she whispers. "Were you sad? Did you want to get everyone's attention?"

"I told you I was sad," I say tersely. "You made it all about you. You didn't listen."

She lets out a sharp sigh that sounds like a sob and she runs her hands through her hair. "Try harder," she suggests pleadingly. "Craig… Please, just try…"

My initial reaction is to flat out refuse and start to complain, but I force myself to pause and be reasonable. "Fine," I say. "For you, I'll try. I can't try for me."

"That's fine," she whispers. "Try for me until you can try for yourself."

* * *

Ruby and Clyde visit me later in the day, long after Becca is gone. "I just got finished school," she explains. "Clyde drove. Mom and Dad didn't want me to come see you."

I scoff at that. "Naturally."

"I think they thought it'd upset me or whatever…" she says with a shrug. "Or maybe they just didn't want me to see you all drugged up and half-dead. They're not really mad, you know. They're mostly just… sad. Really sad. Mom was crying a lot when the hospital called. They wouldn't even tell me what happened at first. I had to nag a lot. I thought someone might've fucking died or something."

"Not quite," I tell her.

I feel bitter and I can't help but recall what Kenny said to me. He said it wouldn't work. He said if I tried, I'd just wake up in a hospital and feel even shittier. I guess he had a lucky guess... but it's a good thing now because I don't want to die anymore.

"Are you going to try again?" she asks. "To kill yourself, I mean."

"Not anytime soon," I say.

She nods her head, frowning. I can tell that isn't the answer she was looking for, but it's the truth. I don't know what will happen next week, next month, next year. I don't know how I'll feel.

"So," I turn to look at Clyde, "What do you think about all of this?"

"It's sad," he says piteously. "I feel sad for you, Craig…"

"Whatever," I mutter.

Clyde sighs and says, "They'll probably let you leave soon. We'll drive you back to your house since you pretty much kicked everyone else out."

I roll my eyes. "Whatever," I mutter again.

* * *

Even later in the evening the doctors let me go, which is good because I need a fix. My stomach is cramping. Clyde and Ruby wait with me and then drive me home. I don't bother inviting them in because I know they're going to follow even if I tell them to go home.

Becca and Kenny are in the kitchen cooking. It's weird to see them so chummy. They don't dislike each other, but they're not that close. I guess they're bonding over the shared experience that is me and my shittiness.

"You should quit that stuff," Ruby says to me, hanging off my arm like she's afraid I'm going to suddenly disappear.

"If it wasn't a drug overdose it'd be something else," I tell her.

After dinner, Becca cracks open a fresh bottle of rum and tosses her head back. She gets mind-numbingly drunk and says I'm stressing her out and causing her grief. Clyde volunteers to take Ruby home, fortunately. I don't want her to have to see me and Becca fight. She'll have to come up with a good lie when Mom and Dad ask her where the hell she's been. She'll probably just say she's been with Karen.

When they're gone, I turn to Becca and ask, "All right, what the hell is this about?"

She starts crying. She's getting worked up. I can tell. "You don't care about me!" she sobs, slurring each word. "All you care about is your stupid drugs and your stupid dog!"

I don't bother reminding her that she likes the drugs, too.

"Then let's quit," I say, though it sounds like an idea that won't ever hold. I just want her to shut up. Nonetheless, she doesn't answer. She just keeps crying. I think she's too drunk to hear a damn word I'm even saying. I just leave her be since there's nothing I can do.

"It'll keep getting worse," Kenny warns me from the doorway. His arms are crossed as he leans in the archway.

I let out a sigh and hold up my hand. "Just shut the _fuck_ up."

Towards the end of the night Becca passes out on the sofa. I leave her there. She'll probably be pretty hung over in the morning.

Kenny stands beside me and we both stare down at her where she's lying. "Sad, isn't it?" he murmurs the question. "Everything about you two is sad."

And I guess he's fucking right.

There's no way I'm quitting now. I was lying when I said I'd try harder. I don't even know how. They're just empty words.


	4. A deal

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

 **I joined AO3 and posted a couple fics for a different fandom but I quickly came to realize that too many people are totally horrible on that site LOL. Though I believe criticism shouldn't be offered unless it's asked for, what I was receiving was nowhere close to criticism. It was just blatant harassment. I was like to kill myself twice and called a "retarded fuck" and etc. I had to go and delete every comment I received except for one lmfao. I won't be posting there anymore. This is the place for me.**

 **Also I started DBT yesterday and it sucks ass. I won't rant about it here, though I might write a fanfiction about it. Literally as soon as something happens to me, I'm like, "Oh, I should write a fic about this."**

* * *

Everyone is tip-toeing around me, being so damn careful.

Apparently my parents will be paying off most of my hospital bill, thank fuck. I don't know how I would've managed that by myself.

I get to take more time off work and this time I don't even have to ask for it. Everyone in town knows about my little drug mishap by now, which sucks. The newspaper called me a "mentally ill 21-year old" but they didn't say my name. The article was mostly outlining South Park's drug problem. Nonetheless, everyone fucking knows it was me. People here like to talk. They like the drama… Well, as long as they're not involved in it.

Becca and me don't end up quitting the junk. Of course. If anything, we just get in even deeper.

Next time Kenny catches me shooting up, he doesn't stand idly by – he takes the drugs from me and flushes them down the toilet. I start yelling and he smacks me across the face. He doesn't do it hard, just enough to shock me. When I'm about to retaliate, he starts crying and I no longer want to hit him back. It's hard to be angry at someone when they are crying for you.

I pause and stare at him, somewhat taken aback.

"Just stop this…" he pleads wetly.

"It's not that simple," I respond.

He turns away, covering his eyes with the back of his hand. Without another word, he walks past me and out of the bathroom. I follow him into his bedroom and he grabs a tissue from his nightstand, blowing his nose. He discards the tissue in the trash bin in the corner before sitting on his bed. He wipes his eyes with his sleeve and stares at me.

I hate it when he cries.

I hate it when anyone cries, but it's especially hard when Kenny cries because he always seems so god damn happy. He's always smiling and laughing and he's always trying to see the best in the worst situations. I guess he's too tired to do that. I'm making him tired. I'm making him give up.

"I'm sorry," I say.

I used to have such a problem getting out an apology, but the word falls past my lips so often these days. I feel like I have so much to be sorry about. I'm constantly disappointing and scaring people. Everyone fears me and fears _for_ me.

"Then change," Kenny responds.

"I can't," I murmur.

"You can if you want to," he counters, "but the problem is… you don't want to. You're not ready. First, you need to learn. You need to learn the hard way… and you will."

I frown at that.

* * *

When I finally do go back to work I end up getting fired. I can tell my boss feels bad about it, but I don't really give a shit because he's really fucking me over by doing this.

"You're just… too irritable lately," he explains. "Look, I know you're going through a tough time, so you need to take care of that first. You can come back when you've decided to make some changes, but until then… don't."

I don't bother responding. I grab my things and go home, locking myself in my room.

Kenny manages to coax me out around 9PM. He makes stew and then we watch _2001: A Space Odyssey_.

For some reason, I feel like crying. I guess all my problems are piling up and I feel too overwhelmed. My grandmother died, I tried to follow and now I'm fired from the only job I ever really wanted.

"Craig, are you okay?" Kenny asks.

"Sh," I whisper, hushing him. I bring my legs up on the sofa and lie my head on his lap. "Just… don't say anything," I plead wetly.

And he doesn't. He plays with my hair the way Becca does and he's quiet.

I sniffle a bit, but I don't let any tears squeeze their way out. I don't want to cry over something like this. When I inevitably end up crying, I want it to mean something more than me getting fired. Is that stupid? Maybe. Probably.

When I manage to calm myself down, I tell him: "I was fired… I was fired from the only job I ever really wanted. It was my first job… I wanted to keep it."

"I'm sorry," Kenny says softly.

"I don't have any money saved up," I confess. "I keep spending it on… shit."

And he knows what I mean by that. Drugs.

"It's okay," he insists. "I can pay the rent this month."

"No, I'll find a way."

I don't want to be burdensome. I don't want to bum off of him. I want to be able to do my part. That's what we both agreed to when we decided to live together. We decided we'd both pay our dues.

"All right," he relents, "but if you can't…"

"I know," I say.

He stares down at me, moving his hand from my hair and touching my lips. "I really fucking love you…" he murmurs somewhat sadly.

"Do you wish you didn't?" I wonder. "Maybe if you didn't love me then this wouldn't hurt as much."

He smiles and shakes his head. "I wouldn't want to change the way I feel, even if you don't feel the same. "

I feel apologetic, but I've already apologized to him too many damn times. By now, it's probably meaningless. So, instead, I change the subject. "What's this?" I ask, pointing to a grim looking wound on his forearm where the scar tissue is thick and knotted. "I always see it… but I didn't want to pry."

"My ex was a tattoo artist," he starts, smiling bleakly. "We started dating when I was in grade twelve. I was eighteen and he was thirty-two. In grade twelve, I moved in with him for some months because I thought it was better than being with my parents. It didn't last long. One night I got really drunk and passed out. I woke up with his name tattooed on my arm, kind of like I was his property. He was scarily possessive and wicked jealous. For a while I let things sit, but then shit blew up and I ended up cutting myself because I didn't want those words there. I had to get taken to the hospital, but… Well, it's pretty much gone. That's good enough for now. Still, the mark is so ugly it just pisses me off sometimes."

"Shit," I whisper.

"I should've tried to get it removed the proper way," he adds as an afterthought, "but I was too angry and desperate for rational thought."

"And you dumped him?" I assume.

"In more or less words," he confirms. "I brought my brother with me because he's bigger and if anything happened I knew he'd, like, protect me."

"He used to hit you?" I assume.

"Yeah," Kenny says with a snort. "God… I wasn't even in love with him or anything. He was just… so much like my dad, the only difference is that he paid attention to me. I guess that's really fucked up. I escaped my parents' house only to end up with a man who was exactly what I ran from. I'm always doing dumb shit like that and regretting it when it's over."

"It's okay," I tell him.

"Anyway," he sighs. "That's why I don't regret loving you… because you're a good person. You don't try to hurt people."

"But I do," I point out.

"Yeah, but it isn't because you try to," he insists. "You don't head out actively seeking to make the people in your life suffer."

"Sometimes I am," I tell him. "Sometimes people disappoint me… and I want them to hurt."

"That's justifiable."

I smile bleakly, knowing it's not. Kenny just doesn't want to upset me by saying otherwise.

* * *

The following weeks are hell and I've started picking at the skin on my forearm. I'm not really sure if I should blame my nerves, the drugs or my BPD.

I haven't had sex in a while. I don't even _want_ to have sex. My libido is virtually non-existent. Sometimes I get a boner when I shoot up, but there's no sexual feeling tied to it. When Becca comes over, we just get high. Kenny doesn't really try to stop us anymore.

I'm really fucking desperate and when I'm not high it's all I can fucking think about.

I know I need help, but I don't want to ask for it. I don't want people to give up on me all together.

Right now Kenny is sitting in the kitchen and I'm hovering in the doorway. My head hurts so bad I can hardly make out the shape of him. He's just a blurry blob of color in my line of vision.

"I'm not going to try and kill myself again," I tell him in a pained slur.

"You're already dead, Craig," he bites out.

* * *

I pick up the phone and try to beg my parents for some money. I know my grandmother probably left me some. Nonetheless, they refuse and hang up on me. They're probably able to sense my disgusting desperation. I know if I tried to take some sort of legal action to get what's mine then I'd end up getting forced into rehab or something at the same time.

Come night, I head to the bar. I have no money, but I know if I sit alone someone will buy me a drink – probably either a girl or some old pervert.

I step inside and sit down and no more than a minute later there's a man sitting across from me – he's probably about forty-five. He has brown hair and a large moustache. I recognize him, but I can't quite place where I know him from.

"Buy you a drink?" he offers.

"Rum and coke," I tell him.

He disappears, returning a brief moment later with my drink and a bottle of beer.

"You're Thomas and Laura's boy, aren'tcha?"

"Yeah," I say, sipping briskly. "You know my parents?"

"I've had drinks with your dad on a few occasions," he admits. "My name is Carl Denkins."

"Oh," is all I say.

It doesn't take me long to finish the drink. When I'm done, he buys me another. Then another. Then another. Then I'm drunk as hell and I start complaining.

"I got fired," I start, slurring each word that comes out of my mouth. "I have no money… I can't afford to pay rent… My roommate hates me right now… but he loves me, too, so he's probably just feeling resentful."

I continue whining until he cuts me off with, "Well, how about I help you out?"

"Why?" I ask suspiciously.

"You're the son of a friend," he says, but I doubt his intentions are that altruistic. I've seen enough movies and read enough books to know where this is likely heading.

Sex. Sex for money.

Nonetheless, I still leave with him. I'm somewhat incoherent, but I'll manage. We get into a truck and I don't bother asking questions. He drives me to his farm on the outskirts of town and we go up a long driveway.

No going back now.

We move inside and it's a very country-style home with lots of wooden furniture. It looks homey, but it doesn't feel homey.

"Where do you want me?" I ask him.

"The bedroom," he says, leading the way.

Of course.

I follow silently. I guess I could still run away, but for some reason I don't even care. I can do a thing like this.

"Have you ever slept with a man?" he asks.

"No," I lie, "but I know what to expect."

I don't wait for him to instruct me to undress. I just do it. I reach for my jacket, unzipping it and tossing it aside. I grab the rim of my t-shirt, lifting it up over my head and discarding it next to my jacket. I slip my hands beneath the waistband of my sweatpants and pull them down along with my boxers and then my socks.

When all my clothes are in a pile on the floor and I'm left standing bare, I finally force myself to look up at the man. He puts his hands on me and I feel his palms moving across my skin. He muses aloud as if he's examining my physicality. He stares for so long, I feel like his gaze is ripping right through me. "How would you like to make a little deal with me?" he finally asks.

"Like… what kind of deal?" I question.

"I'll pay you for your services."

"Like a prostitute?"

It's something I never wanted to consider, but I guess it doesn't matter. I've already fallen this far. I can fall a little more.

"You don't have to look at it like that if you don't want to," he says. "Think of it as… a relationship based on business. I'll pay one hundred to fuck you. We'll do this a few times a week."

And I agree without even having to think about it. I guess a hundred dollars isn't a lot, but I know I'm not worth much more. Plus, this is a small town. There aren't many people around who have money. I'm sure this guy isn't one of them.

It's a good deal. It's quick cash for little work.

He moves to the nightstand, tossing me a bottle. I catch it and see that it's lubricant. I guess he wants me to put on a show. Great. I've never been good at this stuff. I'm not a very sexual person and I have a hard time being sexy.

Kenny is good at it. He really knows how to turn a guy on. I wish I could be like that. It'd probably come in handy right now. I really don't want to make an ass out of myself.

"How do you want me?" I ask, trying to play it cool.

"Get on my bed and bend yourself over," he instructs, hiking his pants below his hips and slapping a condom over his already hard dick. I'm somewhat relieved. Less mess.

I turn away and open the bottle, pouring a significant amount onto my fingers. I crawl onto the bed, pushing my face down into the sheets. At least they smell nice. Clean. My fingers slide in easily even though I haven't been fucked in a while. I play with myself for a few minutes until he comes up behind me. With little warning, he shoves his dick in. I tense momentarily before forcing myself to relax.

I let myself zone out. It doesn't feel good, but I guess it doesn't feel bad, either. It doesn't really feel like much of anything.

I feel nothing.

Maybe that's a bad thing. Then again, maybe it's good in a time like this. I feel like I'm stepping out of my body, watching myself get screwed from the other side of the room.

I wonder if I'll regret his. Maybe. Maybe not. I do a lot of things most people consider stupid, but I hardly end up regretting them. Maybe this means I've truly given up. There's nothing left inside – just cravings. They've taken over like everyone said they would.

When it's over, the guy pulls out and smacks my backside, letting me know he's done. He doesn't offer to get me off and I'm glad. I guess that's not what this is all about, but even if it was I doubt I could even get my dick up. I hear a _clank_ as he does up his belt and only then do I allow myself to move. He offers me a tissue and I wipe away the remaining lube, grimacing as I do so. I toss it in the trash bin in the corner of the room and then throw my clothes back on briskly.

"I'll see you again soon," he says, shoving bills into my hand.

I glance at him and nod before letting myself out. I count the money when I am gone. It's all there. One hundred bucks. I guess it wasn't so bad. I can do it again.

I pocket the money and head home.

* * *

When I come up with the rent money, Kenny is suspicious. "How'd you get it?" he asks.

"Odd jobs," I say simply. The lie comes out easily and effortlessly.

"Like what?" he pries.

"Just dumb stuff like shovelling snow…" I trail off and shrug. "Plus, I sold some of my things online and helped some guy on his farm a bit."

Kenny nods his head slowly. I know he doesn't believe me, but he doesn't ask any more questions.

* * *

I still can't believe I'm a fucking prostitute. Well, yeah I can. What I can't believe is how much I don't care.

Things are progressing quickly. I can feel it happening. I've only been addicted to this stuff for some few months, but it's getting worse and the fact that I don't have a job is making it all go down the drain even faster than it usually would.

My parents have been calling me. I guess Kenny told them I've been really fucked up lately. Well, at least he doesn't know the worst part. No one does. I'll try to take this secret to my grave because it's not something I'm proud of doing. It's not really something I can be proud of doing, even if I wanted to be. Society tells us it's wrong. Society tells us it's immoral and that's why it's illegal.

I don't quite get it. It's just skin. It's just skin on skin on skin on skin.

Fucking this old pervert has become a pattern. I can still probably count the amount of times I've let him stick his dick in me, but I don't really want to. I guess it's fine. He's not mean or anything. Plus, he's clean and we're always safe. It seems like a decent exchange. Sometimes we talk before or after and I'm not always drunk when it happens.

When I get home from another round, there's a strange guy sitting in the living room with Kenny.

"Craig," Kenny murmurs. "I want you to meet someone."

"Who?" I ask, sounding bored.

"This is Jake," Kenny introduces the guy.

I stare at him, forcing back a grimace. He's ugly. There are scabs on his face and probably on other parts of his body, too. He looks skeletal. I can literally see all of his bones and they look ready to burst out of his skin. The ones in his cheeks are prominent, sticking out at an angle that I find hard to even look at. So, I don't. I glance away.

"Why the hell do you want me to meet _him_?" I bite out.

"I think you know already," Kenny says.

"Indulge me," I retort, hovering in the doorway and refusing to take one step further.

"Jake is a heroin addict," Kenny reveals.

I snort back a laugh. "Is this some kind of twisted intervention?"

"Maybe," Kenny relents. He stands up and walks towards me, ushering me into the room and forcing me to sit with the old junky.

"I'm your age, you know," he says, almost like he's reading my thoughts.

I make a face in disbelief. "No fucking way."

"I am," he insists. "Heroin makes you… look really shitty."

I continue to stare at him and I can't help but feel disgust towards him. There's no way in hell I can be compared to this guy.

"You're lucky you still got your looks," he continues, "but soon, you won't. You'll start picking at your skin. You'll start losing weight. You'll get so desperate that you're no longer careful. A few years down the road, you'll start looking like me. The only thing that matters is the fix… and I get it, no one on heroin really wants to stop doin' it. It's like bein' in heaven. Better."

"Shut up," I whisper. "I don't want to talk to you anymore."

He ignores me and continues nonetheless. "I got HIV last year. I wasn't careful. I shared needles a lot. Now I'm paying for it." He laughs shakily and then sniffles, wiping his nose on the back of his bony hand. "Just quit. You'll be way better off. I mean, look at me. I'm gonna fuckin' die soon… I'm killing myself, but it doesn't really matter because I'm pretty much already dead. This ain't living. I wrecked my life long ago."

I guess I can't disagree with that. I stare down at the carpet and he continues talking. I listen until I can't bear to listen anymore. "Go away."

Kenny lets out an audible sigh and says, "Thanks for coming, man."

"Yeah, sure," Jake responds.

The two of them leave the room shortly after and I feel like I should disinfect the room. I hear the door shut a moment later and I assume that the junky is gone.

"Why'd you do that?" I whisper when Kenny returns to the living room.

"It's a look into your future," Kenny says simply. "You'll lose everything, every _one_ …"

And for some reason, that thought scares me more than death.

* * *

I don't want to turn into Jake. I don't want that to be me… but it's hard to stop. It's hard to say no. Most people don't get it. If you want to be free of something, they'll say, "Well quit!" But it's not that fucking simple. In fact, it's fucking impossible. People on heroin… even if there's a part of them that does want to quit, the largest part of them _doesn't_ want to. It's the greatest escape.

"You don't have to go to a hospital, you know," Kenny says somewhat pleadingly. "I mean… I could stay with you. I could take some nights off work until the worst is over."

He's talking about withdrawal. He wants me to quit so fucking badly. Honestly, I don't even know how to. What's the first step? Admitting I have a problem? Well, fuck, everyone knows that. It doesn't matter if I say it.

We're in the kitchen. He's cooking, but I have no appetite lately. I watch his back as he stands in front of the stove and stirs.

"It's not that simple," I say for what feels like the millionth time.

"I know," I murmur. "I know, I know, I fucking know… but I still feel like I need to try."

And I feel bad for letting Kenny down, honestly, I do… but I know it won't change. I'll keep letting him down because that's just the kind of person I've become.

* * *

I'm in a bad place right now – literally and figuratively. I'm in a bad part of town, making my way home from my dealers when a car pulls up next to me. The window rolls down and I see a stranger. "Wanna go for a ride?" he asks and I know exactly what that means in this part of town. I've managed to stick only to sleeping with Carl. I know he's safe. I don't know anything about the guy in front of me. But even so…

I let out a sigh, glancing around. There's nothing. No one. Since I'm high and I have no hope and no money, I shrug and say, "Sure…" even though I'm not in the mood for it at all. God, I fucking hate myself.

I probably wouldn't be doing this if I still had a job. I wonder what my boss would think if he knew what I was doing. I wonder what Kenny would think. I wonder what Becca would think. I haven't seen my girlfriend in weeks. She's probably as strung out as I am. I wonder how she's managing. I should call her…

Nonetheless, I slip into the passenger seat. The ride is short. We drive to a motel on the outskirts of town. Inside, it's typical.

"Strip," he demands tactlessly.

I do as he asks, reaching for the rim of my t-shirt and pulling it over my head.

"Slowly," he adds.

I draw it out and I start to feel kind of shitty because I know I'm doing something I shouldn't be doing more than I have to. When I'm standing naked, I wrap my arms around myself and wait. He reaches for his belt and something in me snaps. I realize how much I don't want to be here.

"Wait," I murmur. "I… I changed my mind."

He ignores me and moves forward. I take a step back, repeating myself. "I changed my mind, asshole!" I raise my voice this time, bending down and reaching for my clothes.

"Sluts don't get to choose!" he responds and there's so much fucking anger and hatred in his voice. It scares me. He rips my clothing out of my hands, tossing them behind him.

When I try to retrieve them, I'm pushed down. I fall onto the carpet with a rough bang and it's just like the first time. He grabs my leg, dragging me towards him and giving me carpet burn on my stomach and chest. Unable to help it, I cry out in pain.

It just gets worse. I feel his belt break across my back and I start fucking screaming. After what feels like far too long, it stops and I'm forcibly rolled over. The man kneels down and I just see my uncle. Two rough hands grab my knees, prying them open. He hawks loudly, spitting. I shudder in utter revulsion. I try to squirm away, but it doesn't work. I try to push him, but he doesn't budge. I try hitting him, but he's stronger than me and it doesn't seem to do any good. Plus, I'm so fucking weak now. Soon, my arms grow tired.

I try not to convulse at his touch. I try to relax myself. It stings, but it's bearable.

I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine…

My fists are clenched against my chest. My eyes are closed. I let my mind wander. I try to think about something comforting. I try to think about Kenny. I remember him telling me about those self-defense classes at the gym. They offered 'rape prevention' courses – though flawed in ideology, perhaps it could have offered me something. I should've taken one. Then maybe I could have avoided this. Then again, maybe not.

His spit dries up quickly and the stinging gets worse. I start protesting. He puts a hand over my mouth. I bite down and he slaps me hard in the face. I feel like I'm choking on each breath I take in. I feel like I'm going to be sick.

He holds me down and I'm too scared to move. Plus, I'm in a lot of pain. All of me aches.

I try to let myself zone out like I do when I'm with Carl, but it's impossible. It hurts too much. I let out gasps and pained moans, going rigid. I can't relax. It feels like I'm being fucking stabbed between the legs.

My stomach tightens and I need to keep swallowing in an attempt not to throw up.

I stare off into empty space, trying to find something to distract myself, but I can't. The room is so plain and empty. There isn't even a clock for me to watch.

His pace quickens and his grip on me tightens. I feel like one of those blow up dolls with the way he's moving me around. It's like I'm weightless and worthless.

It's times like this that make me wonder if God is real… and if he is, why the hell do I have to go through something like this again? I went to church. I had faith. I prayed to God after my uncle held me down. I stood at the altar and pleaded. I was a fourteen year old kid, for fuck's sake.

But maybe God did answer my prayers. Maybe that's why my uncle was arrested. Maybe if I pray about this, too, then he'll get what he deserves.

When it's over, he hikes up his pants and throws a handful of bills at me before leaving. When he's gone, I force myself to move. I start shaking and laughing in complete and utter disbelief.

It happened again. I had no say. I couldn't do anything.

"God…" I mutter to myself, collecting the bills off the ground. There's not even that much. I count it and come up with forty-eight dollars. Fucking great.

My insides feel raw and ripped. I know I'm bleeding before I even stare down. There's a slim, steady stream dripping down my thigh.

Isn't this how you get AIDS and shit? Did he even wear a condom? I can't recall.

I need to go home. I need to shower for fifty years. I need to cry. I know it's not fucking worth it… but I still feel like I need to.

God, I'm going to have nightmares for weeks.

* * *

I start crying by the time I reach home, but it's so late I doubt Kenny is awake. I throw up on a snowbank near the foot of our driveway and then I head inside. I lock the door and lean against it, placing a palm over my mouth in an attempt to quiet myself. I don't want to wake Kenny up. I don't want him to see me.

My movements are slow, pained. I sniffle, stepping out of my shoes and removing my jacket. I don't bother hanging it up, I just let it fall on the floor. I raise a shaky hand and place it over my mouth, quietly sobbing into my palm. It's too much. It's all too fucking much.

At least I'm finally crying. Right?

With my other hand, I grab at my stomach. It hurts to try and stifle your tears once they've started. I try to be as quiet as I can but it doesn't fucking matter because I hear Kenny's door creak open and a split second later he appears at the top of the stairway. He looks like he was asleep. He's wearing pyjamas and he has a stupid pin in his hair, pushing his bangs atop his head.

"I heard you come in," he says softly. "Are you…" he trails off, not bothering to finish the question. Instead, he answers it with, "No, you're not okay…"

He stares at me and I stare at him and the dam in my head breaks into a million fucking pieces. I start crying even louder, completely unreserved.

He hurries down the stairs and immediately envelops me. We stay like this for what feels like hours. I haven't cried like this since I was young. I feel like it's going to make me sick again.

Kenny doesn't say anything. Neither do I. I don't think I could talk, even if I wanted to. The words would come out shaky – too shaky to understand. When I finally quiet, he lets go of me and simply stands so we're in front of one another. He cups my face in his hands and stares at me, waiting for me to talk. He smudges my tears with his thumbs and I feel somewhat relieved that he's home and not at work right now. If I was alone right now, I'd probably try to kill myself again.

"I fucked up," I finally say in a pained whisper. My entire body is aching beneath the clothes and I know there's a nice bruise blooming on my face.

Kenny doesn't respond. He simply holds out his hand. I hesitate before accepting it. He walks me upstairs and into the bathroom, turning on the lights.

"Keep them off," I whisper hoarsely.

He does so, not bothering to ask me why. He probably knows. He knows a lot, so he probably knows this, too. There are times when he reads me like a book. This is probably one of them.

"Craig, do you want me to take you to the hospital?" he asks.

He knows exactly what happened. He wants me to do a rape kit. He wants me to report it.

"No," I say flatly.

No way in fucking hell.

Kenny relents. He turns on the shower taps and I undress, taking comfort in the fact that he can hardly make out the shape of me. I don't want him to see me – not like this. I discard all of my clothes in the trash bin. I don't ever want to look at them again. Plus, they're probably stained as shit.

When the water is hot, I step inside and wash myself. I can't help but wonder how much blood is going down the drain… No, I don't want to know.

Kenny waits on the other side of the shower curtains. He doesn't tell me to hurry up. He just waits and stays quiet.

I want to fucking die. I seriously wish I was dead. Being dead would be better than all of this... but I can't die now. Not after this. So, I have to try and find it in me to live.

I'm in the shower for probably at least an hour. When I turn off the taps and pull back the curtains, Kenny says, "Here," and hands me a towel.

"Can you get me clothes?" I ask, hugging the towel against me. It feels good to be clean. I feel better – not okay, but better.

"Yeah," Kenny says gently, leaving the room. He returns a minute later with something clean for me to wear – pyjama pants and a long-sleeved shirt.

I get dressed without a word and when I'm modest, I brush my teeth. Once finished, I cross the hallway into my bedroom. Kenny follows, killing the lights as I crawl into bed.

"You didn't fuck up, Craig," he says before leaving. "Not tonight. That part wasn't your fault."

And, with that, he's gone.

He always knows.

I try to close my eyes and sleep, but I can't. Halfway through the night I make my way to Kenny's room and get in bed with him.

"How do you feel?" he asks me.

"Bad," I say, "but probably not as bad as I should. I feel so detached now." The words come out hoarse. My throat still kind of hurts from all the crying and the attempted stifling.

He reaches for me and takes my hand, holding it on his chest. I can feel his heart beating and for some reason it's comforting – more comforting than anything he could possible say right now. I close my eyes and concentrate on the feel of his steady heart.

* * *

When I wake up, I'm alone in Kenny's bed. I hear his voice coming from the kitchen. He's crying. It sounds like he's on the phone with someone.

He's probably talking about me. It's always about me… and not in a nice way.

I slowly move down the stairs and peek into the room. Kenny is sitting at the kitchen table in a baggy, grey sweatshirt and a pair of boxer shorts. He keeps swiping at his eyes with his sleeve. It extends past his fingertips and it makes him look so fucking small. His nose is red, his cheeks are flushed. He looks like a hot mess and it makes me feel bad to know that it's because of me.

"Who are you on the phone with?" I ask, stepping inside and making my presence known.

He jumps, startled. "Oh…" he lets out a sigh. He doesn't answer me right away. Instead, he speaks into the phone receiver, "It's Craig. Yeah, he's awake… I'm going to go. I'll call you later on. Yeah, thanks." Then he hangs up.

"Who was that?" I ask again, moving closer.

He sets the phone on the table and wipes at his eyes some more, sniffling. "Kyle."

"Why?" I ask with blatant distaste.

"Do you know what he's studying in university?" Kenny wonders out of the blue.

"No…" I murmur.

"He wants to be a doctor," Kenny informs me. "I just… I wanted to ask him some questions."

I frown at that and I know where this is heading. "Oh."

* * *

In the afternoon, Kenny takes me to a clinic so I can get tested.

Then we begin the detox.


	5. A mess

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

 **My 2nd DBT session was yesterday and it actually was way better. I guess first session was so weird because it was somewhat of an intro haha.**

* * *

The following few days were hell. I won't go into much detail, but I thought I was gonna shit myself for real. I didn't do that, but I did end up pissing the bed and puking all over myself. Kenny cleaned up after me. He never looked disgusted or angry. I'm just glad he laid out enough towels to prevent be from having to go buy a new mattress. I guess he knew what it was going to be like. He did a lot of research and he called Kyle a few times.

It was a stupid and dangerous idea to quit cold turkey like that. It's not how they do it in clinics. They wane you off while giving you other medications in the meantime to help ease it. Then again, I knew if I did it slow then I'd just end up going back.

I never want to go through that again. I guess all that pain can at least serve as a reminder.

I still feel like shit, but at least I'm not expelling fluids every which way. The worst is over.

I still haven't left the house and I'm not going to leave it any time soon. Honestly, I'm afraid to leave the house. I don't want to see Carl Denkins and I don't want to see the guy who took advantage of me. I don't want to see anyone, really.

On the plus side, I don't have AIDS. I don't have anything. Somehow, I'm clean.

Kenny took time off work and stayed with me, taking care of me just like he said he would. He's too good to me. Meanwhile, Becca is still nowhere to be found. Kenny called around, but no one has seen her. He called her work, but they said they let her go the week before. I'm trying not to worry, but it's hard. I ring her cellphone about ten times a day.

"Stop worrying," Kenny says, taking my phone right out of my hand and setting it on the side table. We're sitting in the living room watching a movie – some stupid comedy that he put on. I'm not really in the mood to laugh, though.

"It's hard," I murmur. "I'm worried about her. What if something happened?"

"I've called the hospitals," Kenny says. "I've called her parents, her work, Lola, Annie… Do you want to get the cops involved?"

I bite the inside of my cheek. "She'll get in trouble if she's caught with drugs…" I reason with myself. "Maybe her parents know, but they don't want to tell anyone."

"Maybe," Kenny considers. "They could be helping her the way I was helping you."

"I hope so…" I say.

Kenny pats my shoulder and then it's quiet again. I try to watch the movie, but I'm just not in the fucking mood for it.

"You're restless," Kenny notes, glancing at me. "I can sense it. How do you feel?"

"I feel better – lighter, healthier," I tell him.

He smiles and says, "You look it. You've got a glow."

"Thanks for everything," I say sincerely. "If I had to do that in a hospital… Well, I wouldn't have done it."

He chuckles and says, "You're welcome. I didn't really mind it. I liked taking care of you. You never really let me do it before."

I wrinkle my nose. "Hopefully you'll never have to do it again – not like that."

I know that relapses happen, but I don't want to think about the potential of it. Not right now. I'll just concentrate on this moment here. I'm sober and I feel all right.

"Craig, do you want to talk about any of it?" he asks. "I mean… Some serious shit happened to you."

I shrug my shoulders. "I've already cried about it. What more is there to do?"

"Vent," he says. "Well, maybe vent is the wrong word… but you know what I mean. If you want to talk, let it out, cry some more… I'll be here."

I force a smile, though it probably looks particularly flat. "Thanks, Kenny. You're right, I'm not fine and I probably won't be for a while… but I'll fake it 'til I make it."

He frowns at that. "But isn't that what you tried to do before? Look where you ended up…"

"Right back to square one," I finish. I shrug again and admit, "I don't really know what to do. I don't have anyone I can talk to. No one else knows what it's like."

Kenny nods his head. "I don't understand it, but I can still listen and offer you my support."

I wrinkle my nose. "What did you do to get over the fact that your parents, like…" I trail off, not wanting to bring up their idea of purification.

Kenny grimaces. "I told my friends about it. I even told Eric. He didn't laugh or anything. They were all really nice. They came with me to pack a bag and I spent the following few weeks spending nights at their houses… but in the end I went back home. My parents acted like they didn't do anything wrong. Maybe they thought they didn't and what they were doing was fine. I don't really know. I guess talking about it helped. Crying about it helped. For me, I found that the worst thing to do was to not let myself cry. Part of me didn't want to give them the satisfaction of cracking me like that, but Kyle made me realize something – it's not about them. It's about me and if that's what I had to do to move on, then it was okay."

"Huh…" I murmur. "I never thought about it like that, either."

"Kyle is a smart guy," Kenny adds proudly.

"I guess that's why he wants to be a doctor," I say.

"He'll make a good one. He's kind. He won't be one of those asshole doctors, either. He has good bedside manner."

I smile at the way Kenny talks about his friends. There's always so much fondness in his tone.

"Do you ever talk about me this way?" I wonder aloud.

"Like what?" he questions.

"Like I'm important to you," I explain.

He smiles at that. "Yeah, of course. You _are_ important to me. I love you, after all. I talk about you all the time – to Stan, to Kyle, to Eric, to people you don't know, to my friends at work, to my sister, my brother… I tell them about the good things. I tell them I'm in love with you."

"Still?" I ask him.

"Of course," he says.

"Even after all of this?"

He stares at me. "Why wouldn't I still love you after all of this?"

"You saw me in a really bad way…" I remind him.

"I don't care," he says dismissively. "I know I might seem shallow sometimes, but I'm not – especially not when it comes to you. I really care about you… and I like that you literally let me care."

"I didn't really have a choice in the matter," I say with a forced chuckle. "I couldn't do it by myself… but I'm glad it was you. I wouldn't have wanted it to be anyone else.

He smiles at me. "Well, I'm glad it was me, too."

With that, I decide to change the subject slightly. "What kind of people do you like?" I ask him. "You like both, right?"

"I'm sexually attracted to men and women," he explains, "but I'm only romantically attracted to men. That's why I can sleep with both, but I only like to date men."

I nod my head slowly. "Hm," I muse. "I never really thought about it like that before."

"Lots of people don't," he says with a shrug, "but I think it makes sense. I always liked girls, but I could never see myself dating one. I didn't really understand that until Bebe told me that there are romantic orientations as well as sexual orientations."

"Hm," I muse aloud. "Am I ugly now?"

"No, you're still beautiful," Kenny says. "You're still the best looking guy in town. You just look tired. That probably won't go away."

"You still think I'm pretty?"

"Yeah," he says.

"You're still attracted to me?"

"Yeah," he says again. "I'd take you here and now if you were up to it!"

I snort back a laugh. "Yeah, well… My dick is tired."

"Drugs'll do that to yah," Kenny sympathizes. "Your libido will probably come back in a few weeks."

"I don't really care either way," I murmur. "I mean… sometimes I like sex. When I'm hypersexual, I like it… but when I'm not, I don't really care. I just do it to please people – you, Becca…"

Kenny frowns, his eyebrows drawing together. " _Don't_ feel like you need to do that!" he says sharply. "You're not an object to be used. You're a boy – a man… You have feelings."

"Too many," I mutter.

I'm so emotionally volatile. People don't get that about me because I'm so used to keeping it all in and stifling myself… but I guess I can't keep doing that if I want to get better.

"You should try therapy," Kenny says. "Maybe it would help."

I make a face at the mere suggestion of it. "Talking to a stranger… kind of worries me."

"Yeah," he says understandingly. "Some doctors are real shit, but others are great. It might be worth a shot. Talking isn't as scary as it seems. I used to talk to the school counsellor a lot back in high school."

I wave a dismissive hand. "I don't want to think about that. I'll just… I'll try harder. I'll try not to lie or keep things to myself. I'll tell people how I feel and shit. If I feel like crying, I'll cry. I mean, I think I'll have to. Drugs kind of numbed me, but I don't have any of that now."

Weed really was a gateway drug for me. I started smoking it the year my uncle did what he did. I knew Jason was a big pot head, so I hit him up. We started smoking together. It was a daily ritual for us. We'd get high every day at lunch. Eventually we moved onto doing things like cocaine and ecstasy.

We were eighteen when we tried heroin. He didn't like it, but I did. So, on and off I would do it. It wasn't until this year that I actually got majorly addicted to the stuff. I can't deny that it became a problem.

"All right," Kenny relents, offering me an encouraging smile.

* * *

The following evening, the doorbell rings. I let Kenny answer it and a split second later, he shouts my name. I leave the room and when I'm about to descend the stairs, I see her – Becca.

"Christ," I mutter to myself as I make my way to the front entrance.

She holds up a hand to wave and before she gets a word out, I wrap my arms around her, pulling her into my chest. I hold her against me for a few minutes before finally letting her go.

"Hey," she says with a laugh. "Miss me?"

"Hey," I respond. "Where the fuck have you been?"

"Bebe helped me," she explains vaguely.

"Kenny helped me," I respond, offering him a grateful look. He smiles back before disappearing, giving me and Becca some privacy.

Becca lets out a long sigh. "God, we both really fucked things up, huh?"

"Yeah," I agree. "Fuck," I mutter, cupping her face in my hands. "I was seriously fucking worried about you."

"I'm sorry," she says genuinely.

"It's fine… I'm just glad you're here now." I lean forward and peck her on the lips. With that, we go upstairs. When we settle in my room, I decide to apologize. "I'm so, so, so fucking sorry…" I tell her with as much sincerity as I can muster up.

She smiles and shakes her head. "It's okay, Craig. Really."

"I… I wanna make it up to you," I say. "I'll do whatever it takes. Fuck, I'll even let you do me up the ass."

She chuckles. "All right. Maybe I'll take you up on that, but no pressure."

I wave a dismissive hand. "It's fine. I can do it with you. I trust you."

I feel like I've been taking advantage of her and her absence taught me to value her a lot more.

She giggles and says, "You better moan."

"I'll try," I tell her lightly.

God, I'm really fucking relieved to have her back. I'll prove it to her. I'll prove that I'm going to be better. I'll put in more effort. I won't keep so many secrets. I'll tell her how I feel. I'll be real. I'll open up. I won't make her stay, I'll make her _want_ to stay.

She lies down and I lie with her. "What are you thinking about?" she asks.

"You," I tell her. "I missed you."

"I missed you, too," she says, touching my cheek. "What have you been doing?"

"A lot of drugs," I say with a bitter laugh. "I, uh… I fucked with some guys for money."

She frowns at that. "Are you okay?"

"I wasn't… Well, I guess I'm still not, but I will be," I admit. "One of the guys roughed me up bad."

"I'm sorry," she sympathizes. "That sounds really awful."

"Mm…" I agree. "I wasn't working, so… I needed money for rent and for drugs and I guess I felt like I had no other choice. When the opportunity stuck, I agreed."

"Yeah," she whispers. She lets out a sigh and says, "I got fired, too."

"I know," I admit. "Kenny called your work when we were trying to find you."

"I was with Bebe," she says. "My parents knew. God… they're so fucking disappointed in me. They wanted me to come home so they could take me to a hospital, but I wasn't down for that."

"I guess… I kind of realized that drugs don't help you deal, they just make you dwell," I start, "and in the end they make things so much fucking worse. I had to get fucked by another sick freak to realize I wanted more for myself…"

"Sh," Becca tries to soothe. "It's over. You don't have to go back there now. Just cope."

I close my eyes and let her hold me. I've missed this – not the sex, but the innocent intimacy that comes with being in a relationship. It's the comfort, the reassurance, the warmth…

* * *

Becca bums around the house with me the next day. Clyde pops in around noon.

"Kenny wouldn't let me come see you," he explains.

"I didn't want visitors," I tell him. "I was in… rough shape."

"You look fine now," Clyde says, looking me up and down. "Better than fine, in fact."

"Getting there," I respond with a shrug. "It'll take some time."

He leans forward and hugs me, patting me on the back. I let him, locking my arms around his waist. "You've been through so much shit, man…" he says, getting all sentimental and emotional.

"Yeah and I'm still kicking…" I respond with a forced laugh.

When we part he stares at me and says, "You should be proud of yourself. I'm pretty proud of you."

"Thanks," I tell him sincerely. "That means a lot."

* * *

My libido returns at the end of the month and me and Becca finally manage to have sex again.

I know it's only time before all of my bad habits return. I feel like drug addiction kept the worst at bay. I stopped hitting myself. I stopped cutting myself. I stopped banging my wrists off of tables. I stopped punching myself in the face. I stopped drinking. I even stopped smoking. It was all about the heroin high.

I suppose that's how I got such a bad rep in high school. Kids thought I fought a lot and that's how I got all the bruises and scrapes. They didn't know I gave it all to myself. I can't fight for shit. Even Tweek managed to get the upper hand when we had our big fight as kids.

"What are you thinking about?" Becca asks, sliding a hand up my ribcage and over my nipples. She tweaks one, pinching it. I let her, not minding the sensation. We're lying in bed. We have been since we fucked. Neither of us has bothered to get dressed. We've been lazing around.

"High school," I admit.

"It feels so long ago," she says with a laugh.

"Three years is a while," I murmur. "I'll be twenty-two next year… It's weird to think about. I still feel like a kid."

"Me, too," she admits, "but maybe we're not supposed to feel like adults at this age. We still have stuff to figure out. It's more than just paying bills and doing taxes." A pause. "Anyway, I have to go," she says, getting up and throwing her clothes back on briskly.

"Where?" I pry, sitting up and watching her.

"Out," she explains vaguely, winking at me. She's been doing this a lot lately – giving me the vaguest answers when the truth shouldn't be a big deal.

So, with that she's gone and I'm left wondering. Nonetheless, I shake it off and get out of bed just as Kenny walks through the door.

He lets himself in, smacking me on the backside as I bend to collect my clothes. "I've missed this ass!" he exclaims. I stand up straight and stare at him, laughing in disbelief and he just smiles. "So, you and Red had sex again?"

"Yeah, finally," I snort. "I was thinking about maybe letting her, like, do me the way you do me… but I'm not sure if I am trying to compensate by offering it."

Kenny's smile falters and he simply nods.

"What do you think?" I ask him.

"You might be," he says with a shrug, "but then again, maybe I'm just saying it because I don't want you to let her do that. I guess this was just one thing we had that she wasn't really a part of."

"My ass?" I deadpan.

Kenny rolls his eyes at me. "I look at it as more than that…"

"I know," I say. "I'm only kidding."

I finally put my clothes back on and I let Kenny watch.

* * *

I get home around ten since I decided to take a walk around town. When I get home, Kenny meets me in the entrance and looks concerned.

"What is it?" I ask him, taking off my boots and coat. "I was just out for a walk."

He shakes his head and says, "That's not what this is about."

"What is it, then?" I ask again.

"Craig," Kenny murmurs, tugging in my sleeve and ushering me into the living room. "Look… I talked to Bebe and… she didn't see Red at all in the past month. Red was lying when she said Bebe helped her out. I had a suspicion, but it was only just confirmed when I called her to be sure."

I bite the inside of my cheek and sigh. "Yeah…"

"You know what this means?" he asks me

"She's still using," I murmur.

I guess I've been avoiding the signs, denying it, trying to pretend everything is okay… because if I do, then I can pretend I didn't fuck up so much.

I guess I can't do that anymore. I need to face the facts. I really fucked her up.


	6. A breakup

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

 **Thanks for all the nice feedback :)**

* * *

I'm tired and my heart fucking hurts. I don't want to keep dealing with disappointment. So many people are leaving me. Why am I such a piece of shit? I push people away and the people I don't push away end up leaving all on their own because they can't handle being around anymore. I don't know what to do with myself right now. Kenny is always gone. I think he's avoiding me, spending his nights at other people's homes. He doesn't want to be around me, that much is clear. I couldn't pay this month's rent. He had to do it all himself. He said he would, but he's still mad. It was probably more work than he thought it'd be. He had to pick up a lot of extra shifts and now he's pissed off at me. I don't blame him. I can't blame him. I fucked up. I spent my money on other shit, dangerous shit. I need to get myself back on track. I need to get back to work, but I feel sick and tired and I can't push the cravings aside. My dog is the only living thing that seems to want to spend time with me. Well, I guess I appreciate it nonetheless.

I keep fantasizing about robbing the pharmacy, just going in and walking behind the counter, grabbing all the drugs I can before booking it because I'm so fucking desperate that it hurts.

Part of me is convinced I should try and get hospitalized again, but the other part of me realizes that that's really, really, really fucked up. I guess I just want attention and the possibility of truly recovering scares me. I want people to stop being so mad at me. I feel like everyone hates me and if I hurt myself, then they won't be able to hate me anymore.

Stupid.

Stupid, stupid, I'm so fucking stupid.

For a while, I ignore the fact that Becca lied to me because I don't want her to leave me. I'm so fucking scared she'll disappear the way I disappeared. I just want her to stay.

She's on her way over now. She says she has a surprise. I already know it's a fucking strap on because she texted me telling me to _wash up_. Oh, well. I may as well try to at least get a good orgasm out of this.

I know the only reason I'm agreeing to do this is in some weak attempt to get her to stay. I know it's wrong, but I'm still going to go through with it because that's just the kind of guy I am: desperate. So, I'm gonna let her fuck me.

When she finally arrives, I let her in and we retreat to my bedroom.

"Um, I want to talk to you about something," I tell her once we're in.

"Now?" she asks. "Can it wait?"

"Er, yeah, I guess," I relent.

She opens her bag and whips out a strap on dildo. I stare at it nervously.

"You sure about this?" she questions. "I bought it just for this occasion."

"Yeah, I'm sure," I tell her, even though I feel uneasy.

I hope it'll make us feel closer. I want to feel closer. I feel so far, so distant. I feel like I have things to compensate for and maybe this is the stupidest thing to do, but I'm still going to do it.

I close the door and we both begin to undress. I feel nervous and it's bordering on shy. I don't know why. I have to remind myself that it's just Becca – my girlfriend who I love. So, it should be okay if I let her see me like this. Right?

When her sweater is gone, she's left in a loose t-shirt and I spot a bandage on the crook of her elbow. I grab her wrist and immediately ask, "What's this from?"

"Chill," she says. "I got blood taken. Standard stuff, y'know? I went to the doctor's for a check-up."

I know I shouldn't believe her, but I force myself to. I push it all aside and forget about it.

Once I'm bare, I sit on the bed and watch her get the _thing_ ready.

I've only used a dildo a few times and it's just been with Kenny. This will be something new.

Becca keeps her shirt and undergarments on, but I don't really mind. She gets on my bed and stands on her knees so her crotch is in my face. "Suck my plastic dick," she says, nudging it against my cheek.

"What's the use in doing that if you can't actually feel it?" I ask her.

"I just want to see what you'd look like with a dick in your mouth," she confesses.

I stare at her in mild disbelief. "All right," I relent, deciding to humour her perverted intentions. I grab hold of her _dick_ and then part my lips, licking a strip up the side before taking the whole thing in.

"Ooh, cute," she coos. "You know, people always say that no one looks good with a dick in their mouth, but you do."

I move away and stare up at her again. "I guess I'm a natural," I joke, but it actually makes me feel kind of disgusted with myself.

I already know I'm submissive by nature. Whether I'm with Kenny or Becca, I'm always the little spoon. Kenny is the dominant one, even though there are times when I'm on top. They're few and far between. Becca is dominant, too. She always prefers it on top. She likes to take control while I lie there like a dead fish. I bet now won't be any different.

"Turn around," she instructs, readying the lube.

I do so, settling with my ass high in the air and my face pressed into the mattress. I chew on my lip as I feel the dildo toying at my backside. "Don't..." I murmur. "Just put it in."

It's not like I'm unprepared. I've had plenty of practise.

"But it's so much fun," she coos, slowly sliding it in. "Wow!" she exclaims, putting her hands on my hips. "It slid right in!"

Ugh…

"Don't say shit like that!" I say in disbelief.

She just laughs. "Are you sure you don't do this yourself?"

I don't respond. I let out a long moan, rocking back against the toy. I hear Becca stifle a snicker. She's probably taking immense pleasure in seeing me in such a lewd position. "Do you think it's weird?" she asks offhandedly.

"What?" I ask.

"Doing this with a girl?"

"No," I tell her, though I'm not sure. "Fem-dom is popular."

After a few minutes, she pulls out and I stifle a groan. "Other way," she says. "I want to see your face."

I shift, lying on my back. She kneels between my thighs. "This is fun," she says.

"Yeah, I can tell you're enjoying it," I retort.

"Well, it sounds like you are, too," he points out.

I pull my legs back and press my lips together.

"Mm..." she muses with satisfaction, staring at my netheregions. "I like this angle… and I like this part right _here_ …" She reaches forward and begins touching, moving her finger in a circular motion.

"Feels good…" I mumble hazily, spreading my legs further apart and arching my back.

"Heh, I knew you'd enjoy this," she says. "That's probably why you were so hesitant, though, hm?"

After a few minutes, she slides back in. I close my eyes and try to force away the performance anxiety so I can get a boner. This happens a lot, though. It takes me a while to get hard and sometimes I just can't. I can't even place all the blame on the drugs. I know it's mostly because of what happened to me… and now I have to say that it happened twice. I can't help but place some of the blame on myself. I was being so fucking stupid with my life.

Sometimes I think I purposefully try to trigger myself. I think I put myself into situations that will mess me up, then I feel bad about it when it's all said and done. I don't know why, though. I guess that makes me sound like a pretty messed up person. Maybe, deep down, I enjoy being the victim. Maybe that's why the potential of recovering - REALLY recovering - scares me.

"Craig," I hear.

I open my eyes and stare up at Becca. She's halted and there's a look of concern on her face. "You just went rigid… Are you okay?"

"Yeah," I force a nervous laugh, relaxing. "Sorry, continue."

She leans down and I feel her long hair tickling my stomach as she kisses me. I part my lips and move my tongue against hers. She gives me one last peck before sitting up straight and moving her hips again.

It's odd seeing this side of her, but it suits her. I like the way she looks. I like the way her hair is swaying back and forth.

I slide a palm down my chest, stomach, past the trail of hair below my navel. I curl my fingers around my dick and jerk myself off. I try not to think about bad things. I just try to get into the sensation. I try to concentrate on that and the fact that I'm in bed with a beautiful girl.

Yeah, that does the trick.

For once, I don't try to stifle myself. I'm not supposed to be bottling things, right? Even things like this. So, I moan a little to encourage her. I moan even more when she hits the right spot.

"Did I get it?" she immediately asks.

"Yeah," I say, humoured and somewhat breathless. "Yeah, you got it…"

It doesn't take me much longer after that, surprisingly. Usually it takes me forever to cum even after I pop a boner. I guess Becca knows what she's doing.

"Faster," I tell her, frantically jerking off.

She complies and a split second later I feel that familiar sensation in my groin. I let out a gasp, followed by a long moan and then, for a while, I lie still. I let out heavy breaths before opening my eyes and staring at the mess of semen on my stomach.

Without pulling out, Becca leans down and drapes herself over me, sighing into the crook of my neck.

"You're sweaty," I say.

"We've been at this for a while," she points out with a laugh.

"Sorry," I apologize.

"I don't mind," she promises. "I understand. Plus, I found it enjoyable." When she sits up, my fluids are all over her stomach.

"Want me to get you off?" I ask her.

"Nah," she says. "Today was all about you."

I offer her a brief smile.

"So, shower?" she asks as she finally pulls out.

"You can have one," I tell her. "I don't really want to. I did earlier."

"You hardly ever want to shower with me," she murmurs, removing the toy and setting it on the nightstand. "Do you prefer showering alone or something?"

"Yeah," I confess. "Sorry…"

"Stop apologizing, Craig," she says. "You've been doing it too much lately."

"Funny," I mutter. "I used to have such a hard time apologizing. Now I can't fucking stop. I feel like I have a lot to be guilty over."

She waves her hand dismissively before crossing the hallway to shower. I stay in bed, but I reach for a tissue and wipe my stomach and backside.

"Gross," I say aloud, trying to get rid of all the leftover lube.

I force myself to get up. I discard the tissue in the trash and when I turn around I see Kenny hovering in the doorway.

"You're home?" I ask.

"Mhm…" he murmurs. "Did you guys just fuck?" he asks, eying the strap-on where it's standing. "Well, I know you did… I heard you guys. You were loud – way louder than you've ever been before."

"Yeah," I admit. "I'm trying not to stifle myself in any ways… Uh, I let her do it to me with that thing…"

Kenny frowns at that as he moves into my room. He pushes me back onto the bed and lies on top of me between my spread legs. "Hey –" I protest, but he cuts me off.

"Why?" he moans into my neck.

He's jealous… and for some reason that gives me satisfaction.

I'm desired.

He wants me.

Becca wants me.

I'm desired.

No one hates me.

"Stop," I say hoarsely. "If Becca sees us…"

Kenny relents, rolling off of me and lying so we're side by side. "Was it nice?" he asks out of the blue.

"I guess," I admit. "It wasn't horribly embarrassing like I thought it'd be."

Kenny makes a humming sound and then he leaves the room without another word.

Becca returns shortly after and she's fully dressed. I'm still naked.

"That was so fun," she says. "I liked doing you. Now I can cross that off my bucket list!"

"Fucking a guy in the ass was on your bucket list?" I ask in a deadpan, sitting up.

"Yeah," she laughs.

"You sure you don't want me to get you off?" I ask her.

She shakes her head. "Today was all about making _you_ feel good," she says, "but trust me when I say I thoroughly enjoyed it. Future masturbation fodder!"

"I bet," I mutter.

"So, it didn't hurt?" she wonders.

I shake my head. "Not at all."

She lies on the bed with me. "So, what did you want to talk about earlier?"

Oh, right.

Ugh.

Confession time.

"Hm, uh…" I start slowly. "Okay," I let out a breath. "When we were… apart… I had sex."

"Yeah, you told me about your prostitution stint," she says.

"Yeah…" I murmur shamefully. "Um… Do you forgive me?"

"Well, shit," she deadpans, rolling onto her back and staring up at the ceiling. She shrugs and then sighs. "It's okay… I mean, I can't really look at it like cheating if you were literally getting paid for it. Plus, I know you weren't into it."

"I fucking hated every second of it," I mutter.

She nods her head solemnly. "Hey… What made you want to get sober? What changed?"

"Me," I murmur, pulling the sheets over myself.

"But how?" she pries.

I let out a sharp sigh. "I don't really want to talk about it."

"You said someone roughed you up, right?" she asks. "Was it worse than that?"

"Yeah, worse," I say airily, trying to distance myself from the fresh sting of it all.

"I'm sorry," she sympathizes.

"God," I laugh angrily. "Why does this keep fucking happening to me? Why do I attract this shit? What the fuck is wrong with me?"

"Nothing," Becca says gently. "Nothing is wrong with you, Craig… It's not you, it's the world. The world is shit. There are too many horrible people out there and they don't hesitate to take advantage of others."

"It makes me feel weak," I admit. "Like, I'm vulnerable to this shit."

"You might not want to hear it... but maybe you are vulnerable," she responds cautiously. "I mean, you're severely mentally ill."

"Are you going to stay?" I ask her somewhat pleadingly, changing the subject. I don't want to talk about serious stuff right now.

"I have to do some stuff," she says.

I don't like the sound of that. "What's more important than me?"

She doesn't respond. She just smiles and moves forward to rub my cheek. "Well, gotta go!" she decides. She pecks me on the lips and then lets herself out, leaving me to stew in my own annoyance.

* * *

Carl Denkins manages to find me in the parking lot as I'm exiting from Tweek Bros the following day. I wanted a reason to venture out, so I decided I'd get coffee. Kenny slept in. He'll probably feel groggy when he wakes up.

I'm holding the tray and walking back to my car when he stops me. "H-hi," I stutter out, standing helplessly still.

He looks like he's on his way to get coffee. "You haven't been around," he notes.

"I got into some trouble," I say vaguely.

"You still in need of money?" he asks.

"No," I tell him, backing away before turning around and speed walking to my car.

I hurry home after that. The drive is literally two minutes, but I didn't want to walk because it's still kind of slushy on the sidewalks.

When I step back inside, I kick off my boots and shrug out of my jacket before taking the coffee into the kitchen.

Kenny is sitting at the kitchen table. He looks tired. He must have just woken up.

"Where were you?" he asks me.

"Um, out…" I say, sitting with him. I hand him one of the coffee cups.

"Thanks," he murmurs, taking it and taking a sip. "You look shaken up," he points out. "Did something happen?"

I stare at him before glancing away. "Uh… I saw someone I didn't want to see – someone I did stuff with a while back. He'd, er, pay me…"

Kenny nods his understanding. "Ah… Well, that's of the past, right? I hope you told him that."

"I did… sort of."

"What are you going to do about Red?" he asks, changing the subject.

"I don't know," I whisper.

"You can't keep living in denial," he warns. "It won't make things any easier. In fact, it'll probably just wreck everything even more. You need to confront her."

"I know," I bite out.

"Are you going to stay with her?"

I stare daggers at him. "I don't want to think about that right now," I say sharply.

"She could die," Kenny says simply. "I'm not trying to be mean, but you need to think realistically about what is going to happen if you guys don't deal with this right now."

"Shut UP, Kenny!" I snap.

I decide to take my coffee up to my room instead and lock the door so Kenny can't barge his way in. I don't want to think about the things he wants me to think about. I want to keep living in my little bubble for a little while longer.

* * *

Later in the evening I finally leave my room. By now, Kenny is at work. So, I decide to go for a walk and do some thinking. Actually, I mostly end up circling my old family home until Ruby comes out.

"Hey," she calls to me from the door.

I hold up my hand and wave.

She walks down the driveway to meet me, wrapping her arms around herself for warmth. She's only wearing a hoodie over her clothes – no jacket. "Are you okay?" she asks, sounding concerned. "I saw you loitering. You don't usually hang around here."

"Stressed out," I admit to her.

"Why?" she asks. "Maybe I can help."

I force a smile. "Thanks, but you can't."

"Try me," she challenges stubbornly.

"I fucked Becca up," I whisper the confession.

Ruby frowns at that, eyebrows drawing together. "You… what? You mean you hit her?"

"No!" I exclaim right away. "God, no… No, nothing like that… I just… I'm the reason she's a drug addict. I thought she stopped when I stopped, but she didn't…"

"You stopped?" Ruby asks. Her voice cracks.

"Yeah," I admit. "I've only been sober for a couple weeks, but yeah…"

She smiles gently at that. "I'm happy…" She glances at me and then says, "Hey, want to come inside for a bit?" When I'm about to refuse, she adds, "Mom and Dad aren't home."

So, I accept. We step inside and I shed my shoes and coat. We move into the living room and I feel kind of nervous being here for the first time in years. God, I gave my parents hell back when I lived here. I took them for granted. I made sure they felt unappreciated. I spited them. I was a horrible son.

"I was always such a piece of shit," I murmur vaguely.

"You were sick," Ruby says. "You _are_ sick… I mean, BPD is no joke. You were in a lot of pain. Still are, probably."

"You're justifying it," I tell her.

She shrugs at that. "Not really. I mean, it's true, isn't it?"

"I feel dead," I murmur offhandedly. "According to Kenny I already am."

"You're not," Ruby says softly. "I'm sure he didn't mean that. He was probably just upset and at a loss."

I glance at her. She's grown up. She shot up like a beansprout, tall and thin. I feel like I missed so much of it. She grew out her hair, but it's still that same ginger color. She got tall, taller than me. It's weird to think about the fact that she's already seventeen.

I can remember when she was younger and all her friends would have crushes on me. She thought it was the grossest thing ever and that they had the worst taste. I wasn't nice to any of them. I wasn't even nice to my own sister.

"I'm sorry," I say out of the blue.

"It's fine, Craig," she responds. "I'll always forgive you. You're my brother."

I let out a sigh, glancing around the room. There's an old family portrait sitting on the mantel. In it, I'm frowning. Everyone else is smiling. I look so fucking empty, even though I was only fifteen years old. I think a part of me honestly fucking died when I was fourteen – the largest part of me. Now all that's left are scraps. I haven't had the time to put the pieces back together. I don't really know how to.

"Craig…" she says my name suddenly, "if you ever want to talk… about _anything_ …"

"I know," I whisper.

More importantly, _she_ knows.

"I'm sorry, too," she says in a pained tone.

"It's okay, Ruby," I tell her numbly.

She looks like she's about to cry. I look away because I don't want to start crying myself. Not here, not now.

"I always pretended I didn't know," she says wetly. "I thought that would have made it easier on you. So, I stayed quiet. I didn't tell Mom and Dad what I saw after it happened."

"That's for the best," I tell her. "I didn't want them to know… but maybe they already do."

"Yeah," she says in that same wet voice. "I remember waking up and seeing him on top of you and you were crying and trying to push him off… but you were small and you looked even smaller underneath him. Part of me didn't understand because I was only ten. I was even smaller… but I knew he was really hurting you and it scared me and I'm sorry I didn't do anything…" She lets out a sob followed by a string of heavy, pained breaths.

I was really drunk and he just started taking my clothes off. I tried to push him away, but my movements were incoherent… but even if I was sober, I doubt I would have been able to fight him off. I was always small.

I was crying and I kept pleading _no, no, no, no, don't, not there_ … but he just told me to be a _good boy_ and warned me not to wake my sister. I guess she was already awake. She just pretended not to be. By the end, he got sick of hearing me. He put his hand over my mouth and I tried to pry it off, but I couldn't. I should have tried biting him, but I didn't want to taste blood. I didn't want to get slapped. I didn't want to make him angry. I didn't want to make things worse for myself.

I glance away again, unable to maintain eye contact with Ruby as the memories begin to pervade. "It's okay," I tell her.

"It's not…" she whispers.

I shrug my shoulders. "You were still a little kid. Shit, so was I. You were only ten. I was only fourteen. There was nothing either of us could have done. If I couldn't fight him off, you definitely wouldn't have been able to."

She shakes her head and wipes her eyes with the backs of her hands. "God, it fucking killed me to keep that secret… I feel like I mourned for you."

I forced a bitter, sad laugh. "I feel like I mourned for me, too."

"You're not dead," she says again.

"Maybe I'm not anymore," I respond.

She opens her mouth to say something more, but the sound of the front door opening cuts her off. I stand up, feeling somewhat panicked. My parents walk in a split second later and they look surprised to see me.

"Craig," my dad says, sounding just as shocked as he looks.

"Craig?" my mom questions a split second later, walking in after him. When she spots me she runs towards me and hugs me.

I stand still and limp before finally bringing my arms up and locking them around her.

"We missed you…" she says.

But I know it's not all going to be sunshine and daisies. If I stay, they'll want to talk about things I can't bear to face. Not now, not yet.

I feel guilty, so all I muster up is, "I'm sorry…" I try to make it sound sincere, but I think I just sound scared.

"We're not mad at you, son," my dad chimes in. "We… We know you've been struggling and we'll support you."

I can't help but wonder how much Ruby has been talking to them about me. They probably know some of the bad stuff, but I don't blame her for oversharing. She probably just wanted them to understand me the way she understands me.

"Thanks," I whisper weakly.

My mom lets me go and says, "Don't be a stranger, all right?"

"I won't," I promise.

* * *

I don't linger after that.

When I go home, I call Becca over and tell her I need to talk to her, that it's an emergency.

When she gets here she looks like she's high, but I don't want to ask her if she is. I just want to say what I have to say. Since Kenny isn't here, we settle in the living room. I try to prepare myself for an inevitable argument.

"I know you're still using," I tell her.

She glances to the side. "How?" she asks.

"Kenny spoke to Bebe," I say tersely. "She said she hasn't seen you at all recently… and I've been trying to deny it, but I can't anymore. You'll die if you keep at it."

She shrugs her shoulders, still refusing to look at me. Maybe she feels bad for lying… I don't know.

I grab her face and force her to face me. "So, what will it be? Me or the drugs?"

"I don't know," she responds, pushing me away and taking a step back.

"Pick one," I demand in a harsh whisper.

"I can't," she responds tersely.

"Pick one!" I demand again, louder this time.

She stares at me, tight lipped as she shakes her head.

"PICK ONE!" I scream at her, feeling desperate. "You have to pick one!"

I need her to pick me. I feel like I'll fucking die if she doesn't pick me.

"I CAN'T!" she screams back, moving away.

I grab at the fabric of my shirt in front of my chest before starting to cry. I try hard not to, but I feel overwhelmed. Becca looks taken aback. "Why are you doing this?" I sob accusingly.

I want to be her priority. I did everything right this time. I was open. I was honest. I didn't lie at all. I wasn't sneaking around. I let her do things to me that she's been wanting to do for a long time. I trusted her. She should want to stay... but somehow she doesn't.

"It's not about you, Craig," she whispers numbly. "Isn't that what you always say in situations like this? Well, I'm saying it now. It's not about you."

"Yes, it is!" I snap at her. "I got you into this and I have to get you out!"

"What if I don't want to?" she asks me. Her tone is gentle, almost as if she's trying to get me to understand something – I'm just not sure what. Maybe she's asking me to give up. She leaves the room, entering the foyer.

"You have to," I decide for her, following.

She scoffs at that – at me. "No, I don't…"

"Why?" I ask weakly.

"I have nothing else," she murmurs. "Neither do you. We don't have jobs, we have few friends, we pushed out families away… We have _no_ future!" With that, she turns away and tries to walk out.

"Don't…!" I snap, grabbing her arm.

"Let go!" She tears herself out of my grip and gives me a hard slap to the face. "Don't fucking touch me!"

So, that's that.

She leaves and I have a feeling I won't be seeing her around anymore. I sit on the stairs, pressing my face into my knees.

* * *

When Kenny returns home, I'm still frozen in the exact same position. He comes in, asking what's wrong and playing the part of the concerned friend. I can't even get the words out… partially because I'm not sure what it all means.

He forces me up by the arm and we move into the living room. He sits with me on the sofa and doesn't ask any questions for a while. He just holds my hand in his until I'm quiet.

"What happened?" he asks when it's finally silent.

"I think Becca dumped me," I admit.

"Did she say it?"

I shrug. "In more or less words… She left when I told her not to."

"Maybe you guys just need to cool down?" he suggests, knowing more than well how arguments with me tend to get overheated.

I shake my head. "It was different this time. I told her I knew what she had been doing… and she refused to stop."

We've had the conversation about a thousand times. We both agree to quit and then neither of us would. This time is different, though, because I'm sober. I always thought she'd be the one to get sober and I'd be the one to stay hooked... but that's not how it ended up.

"She won't get help unless she's ready," Kenny says. "If she's forced into it, she'll likely only relapse... and if you want to stay sober, it's best you don't stay with her. She might tempt you."

I sniff loudly, wiping my nose with the hand that Kenny isn't holding. My head is starting to hurt.

"Craig… I know you can't control the way you're feeling, but you need to force yourself to move. You can't dwell. Being around her isn't healthy for you if she isn't going to quit."

I raise my head a stare at him. "You don't fucking get it!" I yell wetly. I slap a hand over my face, sobbing loudly. "You're just saying that because you want me to yourself! I did everything I could to keep her…"

Kenny lets out a quiet sigh, putting a hand on my head. "Man, you're killing me here…" he says piteously. "There was nothing you could do. If she didn't want to stay, you wouldn't have been able to convince her to."

"I don't care," I choke out.

Kenny is quiet again.

"You think I'm fucked up, don't you?" I ask him.

"No," he insists.

"Liar," I murmur.

He lets out a sigh, staring away from me and into what appears to be empty space. "While I'm surfing the net for information, sometimes I come across some serious bullshit – people saying some pretty nasty shit about borderlines," he says.

"I know, I've heard it all before," I mumble. "We're manipulative, moody, negative, mean, crazy, psychotic, abusive, we can't feel empathy and we sabotage anything good we have going for us… so on."

"People who aren't mentally ill usually don't get it," Kenny says simply. "They think you choose to be that way and that if you wanted you could simply change it. You can't… and I think that, on the contrary, people with BPD can be used rather easily."

"I know," I say again. "You've told me this all before, Becca has told me this all before… and I think I've been used a lot. I know I can be mean, but I can also be so fucking permissive… and when I feel guilt, I _really_ feel it. Same with any emotion."

"I know," Kenny sympathizes, "but this thing with Red… There's nothing you can do if she continues to push. You did what you could. She knows you care. She knows you'll be here for her when she's ready, but if you chase her, she'll only grow spiteful."

I close my eyes. I don't want to hear any of that. I just want him to tell me I can fix it and then say how, but I know that's just stupid of me.

* * *

Time begins to pass. I remain a recluse. Kenny pays the bills. I try not to feel bad about it, but it's hard.

One morning, I wake up and nothing feels right. Kenny is staring at me with all this pity in his gaze and then he drops the bomb: "Red overdosed. Bebe called me."

The room starts spinning and I spin with it. "W-wait," I stutter out, "but she's fine, right? She's fine…"

Kenny frowns at that. "She's alive, if that's what you mean… but fine? She's anything but fine, man."

I stare at him with wide eyes, unable to muster up a response.

"Come on," he whispers, nodding for me to follow him. "I'll drive you to the hospital."

I force myself to follow after him, not bothering to change out of my night clothes. I'm so shaken up and the car ride seems to take hours. I let him drive my car. If I were to drive, we probably wouldn't make it there in one piece.

"She won't be leaving," Kenny says out of the blue. "She's in real trouble, man…"

"Prison?" I ask wetly.

"Nah, detox," Kenny responds, "and… maybe, for a junky, that's worse."

I let out a laugh that sounds like a sob and then I confess, "I should have done something…"

"Maybe there was nothing you could have done," Kenny admits gently. "There was nothing I could have done to help you, Craig. You needed to learn the hard way. Maybe Red does, too."

I hope that's not the case. I know she can be so much more stubborn than me.

"Come on," Kenny says. "Let's go see her."

* * *

When we arrive at the hospital, Kenny pulls up to the front doors.

"Don't wait up," I murmur. "I'll call you when I'm done."

Kenny nods and I exit the vehicle, staring up at the large building.

Hell's Pass.

Funny name for a hospital. Nothing about it is too promising.

I walk inside and make my way to the front desk, asking to see Becca. A nurse leads me to her room a few minutes later and she's lying there looking lifeless.

"Craig…" she greets. Her voice is hoarse and tired and soft, like she's given up.

"Becca," I return, sitting at the edge of her bed. "You fucked up."

"Yeah," she admits, "and _you_ fucked _me_ up. You did that before I did any of this."

Now she's placing the blame. I guess it's justified.

"Yeah," I murmur.

"M'sorry I hit you when you were crying," she apologizes hazily. "That was a fucked up thing to do to you."

"It's okay," I tell her. "What now?"

"I get to go to rehab," she says with a sigh. "It's funny," she starts offhandedly. "The first time we tried that shit… I was so nervous. I only did it because I loved you and I wanted to share all parts of your life with you. If it was anyone else, I would have said no. I'd still be walking the straight and narrow. We always talked about quitting, but neither of us was ever serious... It's too hard to quit."

"I'm sorry," I whisper, trying to sound as sincere as I can because I am genuinely apologetic. Introducing her to this shit is my biggest regret. It'll haunt me for the rest of my damn life – however long that may be.

"I know," she says and her voice breaks. "I am, too." A pause. "I, uh... I have something to tell you."

"What is it?" I ask, tilting my head to the side.

She lets out a shaky breath, pressing her lips together before finally revealing, "I was... I was pregnant…"

"What?" I choke out, wholeheartedly taken aback.

"I was having a baby… and I lost it," she finishes. She emits a sharp sigh that sounds like a sob. "I wasn't sure when I wanted to tell you. I know you're not a fan of children, so I kept it to myself for a while… but things kept getting more fucked up and we kept using and I swear, I felt the exact moment I lost it. I fucking knew I lost it." She lets out a string of sobs. "Months of carrying that fucking thing and I couldn't even force myself to sober up… They took it out of me yesterday. I should've just had a fucking abortion... I don't really know why I didn't. Maybe I had this idea of happy family in my head... stupid."

I don't know what to say. I feel sick to my stomach. I just stare at her with parted lips, not wanting her to say anything more. I don't know if I'll be able to handle hearing anything else.

This is the LAST thing I need right now!

"I know what you're thinking," she murmurs, "and, yes, it was yours. I feel like... I feel like it was a girl. Y'know how sometimes you can just feel things? Well, I feel like it was a girl."

I stare at her with saucer-wide eyes and complete disbelief. "What?" I whisper mechanically, feeling my eyebrows knit together.

Why does everything in my life keep going so fucking wrong? I feel like nothing will ever be okay again. Just when I think it might be, everything takes a turn in the opposite direction.

She scoffs, turning away. "Don't give me that heartbroken look…"

"I just thought you gained a little weight," I murmur.

And I wasn't about to comment on that when we had sex.

Sex... I don't know if I'll ever want to have sex ever again, especially not now, but my mind will probably change at some point. It always does. I always flip-flop back and forth. I never know what I want.

Becca lets out a sharp laugh. "Hardly… I was pregnant. I guess it wasn't _that_ noticeable, but…"

I put a hand over my mouth. I feel like I'm going to puke.

I don't hover after that. I can't even bear to fucking look at her. I leave her room and walk down the hallway, leaving the building.

I start to shake and everything starts spinning again. I feel nauseous and light-headed. Everything is blurring. I let out a string of deep, heaving breaths and make my way towards a trash can. I lean over it and throw up. I spit and wipe my mouth on my coat sleeve unceremoniously. I want to fucking scream.

A stranger approaches me. "Man, you all right?" he asks. "You look like shit. Want me to take you back inside?"

I glance back at the building. Ha… He thinks I'm sick. I guess I am. Maybe this is where I belong. Nonetheless, I say, "No."

I turn away and leave the property. I don't bother calling Kenny. Instead, I go see a guy.


	7. A realization

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

 **Thank you :~)**

* * *

I fucked up and I relapsed and now I'm in jail.

Why?

I stole a car.

Kenny and Clyde have to come bail me out and talk to the guy whose car I stole – Carl fucking Denkins. Of course it had to be his fucking car. This is the worst kind of coincidence. It seems almost unreal. I fucking _knew_ the car looked familiar.

Naturally, he agrees not to press charges. " _See? I'm not a bad guy_ ," he said to me and I wanted to convulse.

So, I end up with community service for ramming the car into the sign in front of the grocery store. Plus, I'm not allowed to drink any time soon, my license was suspended and I need to attend a drug prevention program. I'm just lucky I wasn't going faster. I'm even luckier my license wasn't simply revoked.

When I get home, I kick Clyde out and tell him I'll talk to him later. I can't do it now.

It goes without saying that me and Becca no longer together – not after everything that's happened. It does without saying that there's nothing that will fix this. There's no way we'd be able to be together after all the shit that we've put each other through.

Losing her feels like dying. I didn't think it'd feel this bad, but it's fucking unbearable. I feel like a huge part of me got torn away and ripped to pieces. I know I'm already pretty torn up. This just made it worse. From here on I'll probably be spending a lot of nights with my head on Kenny's lap.

I go to my room and sit on the bed, hunching over with my face in my hands. My shoulders start shaking and I take in a sharp breath before lifting my head. I know my eyes are probably glazed over and Kenny is probably assuming the worst right about now.

"Dude, Craig…" he murmurs awkwardly from the doorway, probably not sure what he should be saying. "What the fuck is going on with you? Why would you steal a fucking car? You're lucky, man… A guy like you is way too pretty for prison."

For a while I'm silent.

"You're not yourself," Kenny adds.

I let out a deep sigh. "She was pregnant," I reveal in a hoarse voice.

His jaw drops but he's quick to recover. "What?" is all he musters.

"Rebecca…" I say wetly. "She was having a baby and she miscarried."

"Fuuuuuuck…" he whispers, sitting down next to me and mirroring my position.

I let out a breath. "I wish she didn't fucking tell me… I just get so sick thinking about it… I mean, if she wasn't so hopped up on drugs then I might've ended up as a dad… If she kept it… I think I'd want her to keep it, y'know? I mean… if _she_ wanted to. I'd probably be a shitty dad, but I dunno… maybe it'd be nice."

"Yeah," Kenny says in the same, quiet tone. "Shit… I'm sorry."

"So am I," I murmur. I pause for a moment before adding, "I relapsed."

"Mm…" Kenny responds with a sigh. "Yeah, I kind of thought so…"

"What do I do now?" I ask him.

"Only you have that answer, Craig," he tells me. "I've tried telling you what to do in the past. It never really works. You need to be ready for it."

I put my head in my hands, leaning over and staring at the floor. This is shit.

"I'm going to Denver tomorrow," he adds out of the blue, "but if you want I can stay here. I can put the trip off for a little while."

"Why are you going there?" I ask, lifting my head to look at him.

"I'm going to go see my parents," he reveals.

I cringe at that, turning my head to stare at him. "Kenny, _why_ do you go visit them?"

"They're my parents," he says simply.

"They abused you…" I point out.

He shrugs and glances away from me. "Yeah… but I still like to believe they love me in their own way…"

I frown at that and I can't help but feel fuckin' sorry for him. "It's fine," I mutter. "You don't have to stay here."

"I'll just be gone a night," he says. "I'm getting a hotel with Karen and Kevin so we don't have to rush the trip."

I nod my head and he smiles, patting my shoulder.

Kenny has done a lot for me through the years. When we were young, he'd help me out of my shell. He never pushed or forced, but he was there when I was ready. Of course, it didn't always turn out perfectly.

The summer of grade twelve we went skinny dipping and when we got out our clothes were gone. Some asshole perverts probably thought it'd be funny to steal our shit and force us to walk home naked. I was pissed, not just because I was forced into some exhibitionism, but because I really liked that shirt. I never did see it again.

" _The neighbour said he saw you streaking_ ," Dad mentioned the next day.

" _Well, he's a liar and a pervert_ ," was all I responded with. " _It was probably just wishful thinking_."

It was true enough. I saw that old freak peeping into our windows at Ruby enough times to know that. My parents knew it, too, so they didn't really question me.

Kenny stands up and stares down at me. "You should call Clyde soon," he says. "He's worried about you and you haven't been seeing him much. I know he misses you and having him help bail you out doesn't qualify as quality time together."

Knowing that makes me feel guilty since he did bail me out. So, I say, "Yeah, I will…"

Kenny doesn't hover after that. He leaves the room, telling me he'll be in his room if I want or need him.

* * *

The following night Kenny is gone. So, I decide to call Clyde over.

It doesn't take him long to arrive. He was probably waiting next to his phone hoping I'd call. He's kind of like a dog, but not in a bad way. In a nice way. He's loyal.

He hugs me at the door and I let him in. He kicks his Timberlands off and throws his coat over the railing before following me into the kitchen.

"Want anything?" I ask him.

"Nah, I'm fine," he says, sitting at the table.

I get myself a glass of water and sit down with him. "So, what should I say?"

He shrugs, staring at me from across the table. "What do you want to say? It's up to you. Just tell me what you want to tell me. Clearly you have a lot of shit going on lately..."

Instead of talking about relapsing or Becca's miscarriage or the fact that I literally whored myself out – I decide to talk about Kenny first. That's probably the simplest secret I have at this point. Maybe keeping that secret makes me a hypocrite for getting angry at her for keeping her secret. I'm as pro-choice as the next person, but the fact that it was mine and she carried it for so long without saying a damn word… Well, it fucking kills me.

"I was cheating on her," I finally confess to him, staring down into the glass of water. It doesn't fucking matter if he knows now. Nothing does.

Clyde's jaw drops. "With who?"

I let out a sigh and close my eyes. "Kenny…"

"Woah!" Clyde exclaims. "Seriously?"

I peer at him. "Yeah…"

"Shit," he deadpans. "For, uh… For how long?"

"The entire time," I admit with a shrug. "After I got myself fuckin' raped I went to Becca and then I went to Kenny. Then I felt like I had to choose between them. I chose Becca, but I still kept sleeping with Kenny."

"You didn't _get yourself raped_ , dude…" he says gently. "You didn't bring it on yourself. No one does."

I let out a shuddery sigh. "Then why does it keep happening?" I ask weakly.

He frowns and gives me a questioning look. "What do you mean?"

I put my elbows on the table and put my face in my hands, rubbing up and down. I let out another sigh, not really wanting to get into it. "I mean what I said – it happened more than once. Fuck, I don't even know how many times it might've happened. I don't really want to think about the times at my uncle's house where I woke up completely unaware of what happened the night before. He might've done it a bunch of times."

"Tsk…" I hear Clyde click his tongue. I know right away that it isn't out of disappointment or anger, it's just out of sympathy. I don't look up and see what kind of look he's wearing on his face. I already know it's probably just pity. Too much pity. "I'm really sorry, Craig…" he finally says. "Some boys are real shit."

"Men," I correct. "Some _men_ are real shit. I hate all that 'real men don't rape' shit, because _yes_ we fucking do and that's the fucking problem!"

"I guess you're right," he says, softening.

I close my eyes. I feel a lump rising in my throat, like I might hurl or something but I know it's just my emotions getting to me again. I sniffle and wipe my nose on the back of my hand before raising my head. I still avoid eye contact, but I can feel him staring at me. I just glance to the side, staring down at the linoleum tiles.

"I want to complain and say it's not fair…" I start, "but no one ever said life would be." With a sigh, I finally turn my head to face Clyde. His eyes are glassy and he looks so fuckin' sad for me. For some reason, it makes me feel a little bit better. "What are you thinking?" I ask him.

"I wish you didn't have to go through so much shit," he says quietly. "It's fucking ridiculous that one person has to go through so much pain. I don't think you bring it on yourself, Craig. There's no way. People shouldn't have to worry about going out and getting hurt. It doesn't matter if you were running around drunk and naked, you still don't deserve a damn thing like that. Nothin' but a yes is consent and… sometimes not even that."

"Yeah," I whisper.

I've heard stories from girls back in high school where they were just too scared to say no. It made me feel bad for them, but I could never find it in me to truly empathize. I didn't want my secret getting out.

"H-how, um, how'd it happen?" Clyde pries gently. "The last time, I mean…"

"It was a little while ago when I was in need of money," I murmur mechanically. "Having no job meant no money for drugs or rent, so…" I trial off and give him a look that says the rest.

Clyde's lips part as realization dawns upon him.

"It was almost worse than the first time," I add quietly. "I mean… there's no way to compare it, really… I guess it just hurt in different ways. I changed my mind at the last minute, but the guy didn't let me go. The asshole really fucked me up. It was… really bloody."

"I'm sorry," Clyde chokes out. He looks so fucking mortified that part of me wants to laugh right in his face.

"It's whatever," I tell him. "Just another thing I'll have to learn to cope with. It kind of made me realize that I didn't want to be found dead in some shit-hole motel naked and covered in blood and dried up cum. It kind of made me realize I didn't want to die at all, not by my hand or anyone else's. The reality of it all was just too fucking scary and shameful."

"Yeah," Clyde whispers.

"Becca had some different views," I add. "She didn't want to get sober. Funny, in the start I was always the one to like it more than her. I guess that changed as time went on. Now she's in deeper than I ever was." I pause and let out the bitterest laugh in the fuckin' world. "I fucked her up so bad. She's never gonna be okay. I was the one who looked at her and said _hey, let's do drugs_. She didn't even fucking want to. I just pressured her because I didn't want to be alone and she said yes because she wanted to be a part of my life. Now she's fucked. Kenny helped me. I could help her… but she doesn't want it. Now I understand how Kenny and you felt when you guys tried to get me to sober up all those times in the past." I pause again and, with finality, say, "It fucking sucks."

"She's in a hospital, right?" Clyde asks, trying to be positive. "Maybe she'll get the help she needs there."

I snort at that. "Yeah, probably not. She'll get sober and she'll leave and she'll relapse… Either way, it's too fucking late. I can't fix this now. I can't fix us, either. I can't even bring myself to fucking look at her." I let out a shuddery sigh and say, "She was carrying my fucking baby and it died because she wouldn't get sober." I let out another sigh and then another and then another and then I feel tears in the corners of my eyes. Fuck, I really don't want to start crying.

As if Clyde couldn't look any more mortified. "What?" he croaks.

"Her birth control fucked up… She probably missed a pill or something during one of the few times we didn't use a condom. She kept it a secret… I didn't know about it until they scooped it out of her or whatever." I try to keep my cool, but talking about it is really fucking with my head. Still, I can't fucking stop. The words keep pouring out until Clyde reaches across the table and grabs one of my hands.

"Craig, dude," he cuts me off. "Stop… You don't need to talk about it."

I stare at him and I feel my eyes get glassy. Soon enough, it's too fucking late and I'm shaking and crying like a fucking baby. I feel like I'm seriously losing my fucking mind.

Clyde stands up and moves to my side of the table, forcing me to my feet. He wraps his arms around me and I push my face into his shoulder. He's warm and tall and strong. He smells nice, gay as it sounds. He's comfortable and familiar and I feel safe around him, yet I still feel fucking stupid for crying. I feel like it's something I shouldn't be doing no matter what. I don't know why I feel this way. My parents never told me not to cry. My dad never perpetuated hypermasculine ideals. Clyde and Kenny have no problems crying and they're both guys… but me? I've never been a crier until recently. Now it's like I can't seem to stop. It all just comes pouring out. I wish I could keep it blocked up, but it'd just overflow and I'd fucking explode.

Oh, well. The dam is already broken now. I won't bother trying to build it back up. I just need to learn how to deal with all the shit I've been keeping in. There's nothing getting in the way now – not work, not drugs, not girls, not sex… nothing. I have nothing to distract myself from any of it. It makes me feel so fucking lonely, though I know I'm not.

Eventually, I push Clyde away and briskly wipe my eyes.

"You okay?" he asks.

"No," I say flatly, sitting back down. "I'll never be okay."

And it's probably true. I'll have good days and bad days for the rest of my fucking life.

"Want me to make you anything?" he asks. "Food, tea? Bebe is really into tea lately. She says it has a lot of health benefits."

"Kenny likes tea," I say somewhat offhandedly.

Clyde wanders towards the cupboard above the toaster oven. "What kind should I make?"

"I don't care," I respond.

So, he makes chamomile. I guess that's a safe bet, since it's late. He turns the kettle on and we wait.

"Even if there are things that are your fault… You don't need to punish yourself forever, dude," Clyde says to me as he leans against the counter.

"I introduced her to heroin and it was MY dick that got her pregnant," I say pointedly. "You don't understand how I'm feeling, Clyde."

"Maybe not exactly," he relents, "but I get it a little bit. I mean, when my mom died I blamed myself. I got drunk and you weren't around. No one was, so I called her to come get me all the way from Cherry Creek. She was really mad at me. She didn't want to drive all the way out there to come pick up her drunk, stupid son." Clyde pauses and shrugs. "Friday nights are always the worst. I swear the entire town gets drunk. She got hit by some asshole who decided he would be fine to drive. She pretty much died on the spot and I was left waiting. I thought she just changed her mind at the last minute and decided to punish me or something by forcing me to find another way home. So, I spent most of the night cursing her. Then I found out a few hours later that she fucking died when my dad called me from the hospital's mortuary. I mean… obviously part of that was my fault, but the largest part was the fault of the drunk asshole who thought he'd be able to drive. So, even if you think it's your fault that Red is all fucked up, it's not really all on you. She has the choice to stop. She just doesn't want to. There are always other forces that have more of a say than you do."

"What a mouthful," I murmur.

"I think I'm right," Clyde says.

Soon, the tea is ready and he pours two cups – one for me and one for him. He sits down across from me again and for a while we're quiet. I sip and he sips and we don't talk for a while. We just sit in silence until I decide to break it.

"I'm sorry about your mom," I say out of the blue. I never really expressed the right amount of sympathy in the past.

Clyde smiles and shrugs. "S'okay. It was years ago."

"Still," I reason.

He wrinkles his nose, relenting. "So, tell me more about Kenny," he says, changing the subject.

"He loves me," I murmur.

"And do you love him?"

"I don't know," I say. "That's what I've been trying to figure out. I never know what my feelings for him are." A pause. "Do you think it's possible to love two people at the same time?"

"Sure," Clyde responds, offering me a small smile.

"Kenny is good," I muse. "He offers me stability when I feel like everything in my life is in shambles. I know he has his own problems, but he is always there for me and he always helps me and... I guess I want to do the same for him. I feel like things with him are so one-sided."

"Sounds like love to me," Clyde says.

"I could try being with him," I consider. "I have nothing but myself stopping me..."

"Why DO you stop yourself?" Clyde pries.

"Kenny calls it internalized homophobia," I mumble. "Plus, I've got a lot of issues."

Clyde gives me a piteous look and nods his head. "Sorry, man."

"I'm trying to deal with it," I admit... which is true. It's not something I can really deny about myself and whatever my sexuality is isn't something I can change. I just need to learn to accept it.

The longer my sobriety lasts, the worse I feel.

* * *

Kenny returns around midnight. By now, Clyde is gone. He's talking on his phone. I can hear him as he moves into the kitchen. After a few minutes, I make my way downstairs. He's sitting at the kitchen table.

"Craig has community service and he has to attend these anti-drug classes," Kenny says to whoever he's talking to. "He broke into Carl Denkins' truck and took it for a joy ride…"

I hover in the doorway, leaning against the arch and crossing my arms. He holds up a hand when he spots me. At least he has the good grace to look somewhat sheepish.

He continues talking for a minute. I wait until he's finished and when he puts down the phone, I decide to pry. "Who was that?" I ask him.

"Kyle," he responds. "Sorry I was blabbing."

I shrug my shoulders. "It's fine. When it comes to the important things you always keep your mouth shut. It's not like people aren't going to find out about this, anyhow. It was in the newspaper."

"True," he relents.

"So, how was Denver?" I ask him.

He only shrugs. I walk away after that, sensing that he isn't in the mood to talk about it. For some reason, it pisses me off. I want him to talk to me.

I can feel myself getting bad again. It takes too much effort to be around people, even people I should want to be around because the littlest things always set me off.

I've been in the newspaper twice this year. I've been causing a lot of drama. The locals are probably licking it up. I feel like everyone has been waiting for me to fuck myself into the ground for years. It was inevitable.

I wonder if my parents are ashamed of me.

* * *

The following night, Kenny has people over. More local loadies. I think some sports game is on because they're all shouting excitedly about something. I don't know why they're doing this here. Kenny doesn't even like sports.

I don't bother leaving my room. I just try to drown out the sounds of voices.

Towards midnight, they begin to disperse. I hear Kenny coming up the stairs, so I get out of bed. When I'm about to poke my head out I hear him talking to someone and I realize he isn't alone.

I debate on making my presence known nonetheless and making a scene, telling whoever else is there to go the fuck home… but I don't do that. Instead, I just go back to bed.

Mere minutes later and I can hear his headboard rattling against the other side of my wall and I feel like fucking screaming.

* * *

I haven't been doing anything. When I'm not doing community service or at my drug meetings, I'm lying naked in my bed. Uno sits at the bottom, staring at me. I feel like he's trying to tell me to get out of bed. It's nearing 10PM and I've barely left my bed today, though I haven't gotten any sleep. I feel too bad to sleep. I can't relax. I'm so tense.

I feel gross and greasy and I really need to get clean, but I physically can't bring myself to move. It's laborious work and I've gotten out of shape in the past couple months. I've lost a little muscle and I'm bonier than I used to be. I need to get healthy again. My confidence is down the drain. When I look in the mirror I don't see what I want. I feel so ugly. I don't know if it's because I've actually gotten ugly or if it's because I hate myself too much to see anything good. At this point, it could probably be both.

It's dark outside. I haven't budged in hours. I want someone to reassure me. I want someone to look at me and tell me I'm attractive and that they want to fuck me. But they have to want to fuck me because I'm me, not just because I'm convenient…

Around late evening, Kenny steps into my room. He tells me to get out of bed, but I can't. I feel so sad I can physically feel it in my stomach and chest and behind my eyes and in the back of my throat.

"Craig," he says my name, approaching my bedside.

I don't respond. I can't respond. I just stare up at the ceiling. I've been lying here for too long, completely immobile. I feel like the mattress is permanently indented with the shape of my body.

Kenny forces me out of bed and grabs me under the arms, dragging me into the bathroom. I slump onto the tiled floor and start sobbing. "Stop…!" I plead.

"No!" Kenny responds, turning the bath taps on. "You haven't showered in over a week! It's not fucking healthy!"

He fills the tub, picking me up and dropping me in. The water is cold and it splashes over the edges and onto the floor. I start fucking screaming at him. He looks at me piteously, but he doesn't scream back. I throw shampoo bottles. He manages to avoid some of them. When I run out of things to throw I try to get up. Kenny doesn't let me. He approaches and pushes down on my shoulders, keeping me in the tub.

"You're not leaving until you've bathed," he says. "Frankly, you're gross."

"You're disgusted by me?" I ask him blankly.

" _I'm_ not," he says, "but other people probably would be."

"The water is too cold," I murmur.

"I thought it'd wake you up," is all he says.

I suck it up and close my eyes as I rub a bar of soap across my skin. It's cold and my dick is probably gonna look like a raisin when I step out.

"Stop punishing yourself, Craig," Kenny says out of the blue. He grabs one of the shampoo bottles I tossed at him and washes my hair – like Becca, like my mother.

"Shut the fuck up," I respond mechanically. "Just shut up…"

Kenny reaches up and unhooks the shower nozzle, rinsing the shampoo out. I feel like a fucking baby. He always babies me. Everyone does. Then again, maybe I need it. I do act like a child half the time.

I pull the plug and Kenny hands me a towel as I stand. I dry off and wrap it around my waist. We cross the hall back into my bedroom and he starts tearing the linen off my bed.

"What the fuck?" I ask him, wanting to know what he's doing.

"I'm changing your sheets," he says, grabbing them all and leaving the room to toss them in the laundry.

He returns a couple minutes later with fresh ones and I'm still standing still against the wall. I watch him make my bed and when he's done he sits down.

"Thanks," I tell him, since it's the right thing to say.

"Sure," he responds good-naturedly.

I sit down next to him. I feel like I should be mad at him for forcing me into a freezing cold bath, but I'm not. I know he was just at a loss for what else to do.

Kenny glances at me. "You should trim your hair," he says, grabbing the ends. "It's getting long and it doesn't suit you."

"It's not that long," I tell him.

"You usually wear it shorter," he points out, letting go.

I think he wants me to put myself back together the way I was before things got bad.

"I guess so," I relent. "I'll call Bebe soon. I'll let her give me a trim… Uh, I'll start eating again. I won't do drugs or drink or anything. I'll start running and stretching again… I'll try to get my job back." I continue listing off things I'll do to make myself better, things that will make him proud.

Kenny nods his head. "That's good to hear, dude."

"Hey," I murmur offhandedly, "am I still attractive?"

"Duh," Kenny says without hesitance.

"Really?" I ask him. "Reassure me."

"You still have your looks," he promises. "Trust me. You're still a real pretty guy. You have nice skin, a nice body, a nice face. You didn't lose any of that. I mean, you could have… but you didn't let it go on long enough. You got out. You sobered up. The only thing that's changed is you look a little tired and depressed, no offense."

"That probably won't ever change," I murmur.

He offers me a sympathetic smile. "Well, I don't mind… and even if you did lose your looks I'd still love you."

I nod my head lazily. "I still want to be attractive, though… and I want people to want me."

"I want you," he says.

"Still?" I ask.

"Yeah," he says.

I sit up and kill the lights, dropping the towel and getting into my newly made bed. "You can stay in here tonight," I tell him.

And he does.

* * *

Come morning, we both wake up at the same time and head to the bathroom. We brush our teeth, since we both forgot to last night. I put on some clothes and Kenny walks me to my community service and says he'll pick me up, too.

Community service is shit, but at least it's easy. All I have to do is clean up parks with a few other potential criminals. The only part that pisses me off is when kids hang around to watch or make jokes about us lowlifes.

Towards the end of the day, some little shits start littering. I want to fucking scream at them, but that would probably just make them laugh. I want to gut them with my stick, but that would land me in prison for real.

God, it's shitty to think that we were all probably this awful when we were that age.

Like the fucking saint he is, Kenny shows up and scares them off by acting like a crazy guy. Then he waits on the bench until the officer lets us all go.

When he sees me coming, he stands up and meets me. "It's weird seeing you pick up trash," is the first thing he says.

I roll my eyes and shrug, shoving my hands in my pockets. "Well, it's not something I want to be doing… but it's better than prison."

"True," he says, throwing an arm around me and leading me down the street.

"What did you do all day?" I ask him.

"Hm…" he muses. "Not much. I got coffee and hung around with a few buddies."

"No work tonight?"

He shakes his head. "If you don't have anything going on we can watch a movie or something. Whatever you want to do, we'll do."

* * *

When we get home, I put on sweatpants, tossing my jeans aside. I always do this. As soon as I'm home, I put my pajamas on. I'm lazy. I like to be comfortable.

Back downstairs, Kenny makes tea and we sit in the living room. He sifts through Netflix before we eventually decide on some crappy looking horror movie.

Honestly, I hate horror films since I'm so jumpy. I also tend to psych myself out after watching horror movies. I'll literally think there are ghosts and shit in the house and whoever is around will need to calm me down. I think Kenny tends to forget this… but then again, maybe he thinks it's funny. I know Jason used to rip on me for it when we were younger.

When the movie reaches its peak, Kenny glances at me. "You okay? You look fucking terrified and you keep jumping."

"You know I fucking hate horror movies," I murmur.

"Why didn't you remind me sooner?" he asks, voice laced in gross amounts of sympathy. I guess he doesn't think it's funny.

"I thought I could power through," I admit with a shrug.

"Wanna stop?"

I debate on saying yes, but since we've come this far I want to know how it ends. So, I say, "No, we can finish it."

* * *

After a typically dreary ending, the credits roll. Kenny turns the television off and takes our empty cups to the kitchen. I follow him in and then I follow him up the stairs.

"Are you going to bed?" I ask him once we reach the top.

"Yeah, probably," he says.

"Let's fuck," I proposition, not wanting to be alone just yet.

He turns to face me. He's frowning. "Craig, if you want to spend the night in my room or whatever, you can. Just say you're scared. You don't have to force something you're probably not in the mood for."

I roll my eyes at him. "How do you know I'm not in the mood for it? Maybe I am."

"Are you?" he asks.

"Yes," I tell him. "So, let's do it. Fuck me."

"Well, all right," he says with a weary smile. "I won't say no to that."

I push my door open and nod for him to follow me in.

"Can we keep the lights on?" he asks, flicking them on.

"Um, yeah," I say hesitantly.

He unties my sweatpants and pushes them down along with my boxer briefs. I step out of them and let him remove my shirt. When I'm standing bare, I do the same to him.

"Are you nervous?" he pries, placing one of his hands against my chest and spreading his fingers out. "We've never really done it like this before – sober, lights on…"

"It's okay," I tell him. "I trust you and shit."

He chuckles (probably at my lack of eloquence) and then moves past me, opening my nightstand. He grabs lube and a condom.

I sit in the center of the bed and he joins, sitting across from me. For a moment, he just stares.

"What is it?" I ask, reaching forward and grabbing his dick.

"I'm just glad we're doing this again," he says.

I just smile at his sentimentality. When he has a boner, I roll the condom on and lie back. He parts my bent knees, settling between them. I watch as he opens the cap to the lube, pouring some on his finger before sticking them up my ass. They slide in easily.

"Skip the foreplay," I say. "Just put it in."

He chortles at that. "Eager?" Nonetheless, he removes them and does what I ask… and yeah, I'll admit that I missed this feeling. I missed having sex with someone who actually cares about me. You can always tell. You can tell what people are thinking when they fuck you. You can tell how they feel about you.

Once Kenny is all the way in, he hovers over me. He doesn't move. He just stays still and stares down at me.

"What is it?" I ask, staring up at him.

"Hey… Can I kiss you?" he asks.

"Oh… yeah." I lock my arms around his neck and pull him down.

We exchange a few open-mouthed kisses and then he pulls away. "I've wanted to do that for a really, really, really long time," he says with a laugh.

"So do it more," I say.

"You don't mind?" he wonders.

"Not anymore," I tell him. "I think I wanted you to kiss me for a while now."

So, he does it again and it's nice.

When we part for a second time, I squirm around, wordlessly telling him to start moving his hips.

"Don't stifle yourself this time," he says. "I wanna hear the sounds you make. I like hearing you."

I let out a breathless laugh. "Yeah, okay, I'll try."

If I was more open like this with Becca then I can be more open with Kenny. So, this time, I don't stifle myself. I let myself be all open and vulnerable and shit.

He won't disappoint me, will he? He won't run away like she did...

I keep my arms locked around Kenny the entire time. I cum first and I don't even have to touch myself. It doesn't take me long since I haven't had sex in a while. I didn't think I'd be ABLE to, but here I am.

I close my eyes, but I can feel Kenny watching me. I try not to mind it. I try not to shy away from his gaze. I let him look at me. I let him see me in ways I haven't before.

When he pulls out, he sits on my abdomen and I jerk him off. "Fuck, fuck, fuck…! Gonna cum…" he moans, vocal as ever.

I let him cum on my face because I hear guys are into that. I was never into it, but Kenny seems to be. Maybe it's like marking territory.

I stick my tongue out and lick the corner of my mouth. Kenny smiles down at me before rolling over and reaching to my nightstand for a tissue.

"Here." He hands me one and I wipe my face. "That was, like, so fucking awesome," he says with a breathless laugh, lying down next to me.

I laugh along with him. "Was it?" I ask coyly.

"Yeah, it was different… You were different. I mean, every other time was good, too, but I feel like you let me see the parts of yourself that you used to call embarrassing."

"Well… I'm trying not to be so rigid," I tell him.

And I'm trying not to hate myself for liking this. I think that used to be something I did. There was too much shame. Now there's less.

Kenny glances at me and smiles. "I liked it. You make nice sounds. I could listen to that all day!"

I roll my eyes and nudge him. He just chuckles in response and we both fall silent – just the sounds of our breaths.

After a few minutes, Kenny gets up and grabs his clothes, leaving the room. When he returns, he's wearing his pajamas and his bangs are pinned atop his head and out of his face. "I'm gonna head to bed," he says.

"Oh… okay," I say, sitting up and bunching the blankets around my waist. "Goodnight."

"G'night," he echoes before leaving the room.

I kind of wish he'd stay in my bed tonight, but I don't want to have to ask him. I feel like it should be common sense since we just fucked. I even let him kiss me this time. We did it with the lights on and I was sober, too. Things are different now… but maybe he's just waiting for me to make it official. Then again, do I want to?

I sit and mull things over for a few minutes until finally forcing myself out of bed. I wipe my lower body off lazily before putting my sweatpants and t-shirt back on. I cross the hall, brushing my teeth and taking a piss. I wish my hands and my face and then head to my room. Killing the lights, I go to bed. I do the running-jump, as fucking pathetic as that sounds. I'm just glad no one was here to witness it.

The logical side of me KNOWS that they're probably not real and definitely not in my house, but I'm still somewhat convinced of otherwise.

I feel like a child again, making sure I'm covered by the _safety_ of my linen. I've always been a little bit afraid of the dark. Sometimes I psych myself out and I literally convince myself I'm hearing shit, so I keep my eyes closed real tight. Like maybe if I ignore it, then it'll go away.

So, so, so fucking stupid! God, I'm such a moron. I'd never be able to tell people what a major baby I am. They'd laugh their asses off.

I don't know how long I'm lying here thinking about how stupid I am, but at some point in the night, I end up running into Kenny's room. He's asleep by now, so I'm careful not to wake him. I lie down next to him and close my eyes. I feel better lying with him.

* * *

I'm shaken awake sometime in the night and when I open my eyes I can see the faint shape of Kenny hovering over me. "You were moaning… and not in a good way," he says.

"Bad dream," I tell him, rubbing my eyes. "I hope you don't mind me sleeping in your bed."

He looks guilty. "I don't mind. I'm sorry, dude. I should've stayed with you tonight."

"S'fine," I say groggily. "It wasn't because of the movie or anything. It was just… from other things, I guess."

"Oh…" he responds, probably reading between the lines. "Wanna talk about it?"

"No… it just sucks," I murmur. "I'm sick of it. I thought it stopped… the dreams, I mean. For the longest, I was sleeping without them, but now they're back."

"I'm sorry," he says. He lies back down, pulling me with him. "Should I wake you up if it happens again?"

I close my eyes. "Yeah."

* * *

Realizing I wanted to live was almost scarier than feeling like I wanted to die. It's because I had given up. I didn't care about anything. Then suddenly I did. Now I have to gain it all back – my confidence, my sanity, my health… I need to patch up my relationships.

Maybe the scariest part of it all was how it happened. It was a reminder of the how fucking shitty I felt the first time. I don't want a thing like that to happen again. Thinking about it makes my skin crawl.


	8. A beginning

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

* * *

So, time goes on. I got my hair trimmed by Bebe. I'm running again. Now I'm really starting to look more like myself.

I don't want to relapse again. Some of my old habits are starting to return. I started _harming_ again. I feel like I'm too old for this bullshit. Kenny has had to take me to the hospital a couple times because I fucked up and the tissue was visible. He cried about it, but he never told me to stop. I think he knows he has no right and even if he did I wouldn't listen.

We've been fucking a lot and I let him kiss me every time. I guess I like him, but I still think about Becca a lot. I still love her. I think I always will. I can't imagine not loving her. But maybe I can love Kenny, too.

My nightmares stopped for a while, but now they're back. I don't really know why. Kenny sleeps in my bed most nights and when he doesn't I end up crawling into his like a fucking scared child that doesn't want to be alone.

I feel like I'm getting worse and worse. Every time I think I'm doing okay, I take a thousand steps backwards a split second later. The only reason it isn't showing is because Kenny is forcing me to take care of myself. He tells me when to eat, when to bathe, he walks or drives me to community service and my drug meetings, he picks me up as well, he brings me glasses of water… I don't act grateful, but I am. I think he knows that. Usually I'm not for the idea that other people know what's best for me. I like to think only I know what's best for me, but it isn't true at this point in my life. In this case, Kenny really does know what's best and he's making sure I see to it.

Today is a Monday. I've been so out of it.

I spend the day on my laptop. I debate on looking at classified ads, but I don't. I just fuck around on Facebook for the first time in a while. I don't go on Facebook that much. Most of my tagged photos are from high school since I've turned into a hermit since then. The recent ones are few and far between but they all have one thing in common – I look cranky as fuck.

The last profile picture I uploaded was last summer. It's of me and Becca. She took it. We look nice. Happy. The photo got 127 likes and as pathetic and stupid as that sounds it made me feel good. I like that kind of attention because I'm shallow. I want people to think good things about me.

But I should change it. I'm at a very different point in my life now, after all. Plus, Rebecca probably won't be around anymore.

I debate on deleting it all together, but I decide against it. I'll keep it. Maybe someday it won't pain me to look at it.

I stand up and head into Kenny's room. "Do you have any pictures of me? Or us?"

"Yeah, on my phone," he says. "Why?"

"Are any recent?" I ask. "I want a new profile picture on Facebook."

He grabs his phone from his nightstand and waves me over. "I've got a bunch," he tells me. I sit with him as he scrolls through.

"I like that one," I say and he stops. It's a photo of me and him from a few months back – before things got bad. I think we were both pleasantly drunk, which is probably the only reason I'm smiling so big in the photo you can see my dimples. Kenny is smiling, too, but he smiles often so it isn't strange. I guess I smile a lot, too, but not like that. My smiles are reserved and totally fake. This one… it looks real.

"Me, too," Kenny says. "You look really happy."

"I think I was," I tell him. "Can you send it to me?"

He nods, clicking on the photo and emailing it to me. I thank him before returning to my room. I open my emails and download the photo, making it my new profile picture.

After a split second, I get notified that Bebe liked the picture. After another split second, she starts a conversation, expression more sympathies about Becca. I guess Clyde filled in blanks. She probably had questions after seeing me. I think I probably looked kind of depressed. I'm not mad about it, though. She would've found out eventually. So, I tell her it's fine and that I'm dealing.

 **Bebe Stevens: It was fun cutting your hair. If you ever need anything else, give me a shout.**

 **Me: Thanks.**

After that, I sign off.

Later in the day, I force myself out of the house. I go to the animal shelter before closing hour and plead for my job back, promising that I've made some changes. Eventually, my boss relents and welcomes me back. I start on Monday. I feel pretty good about (some) things – better than I've felt in a while.

"Help me close," the boss says.

And I gladly do.

* * *

When I get home, I sign back onto Facebook to see how much attention I've gotten while I was out.

I read through the comments in case there are any annoying ones I'll need to delete.

 **Bebe Stevens , Token Black, Clyde Donovan and 74 others like this. **

**Wendy Testaburger: Cuties.  
Tweek Tweak: You guys look good :)  
Clyde Donovan: Aw!  
Sally Turner: Good to see you smiling, Craig! You guys should date if he makes you this happy ;) ;)  
Kevin Stoley: I second that ^^^**

I roll my eyes at the last two comments. I think she's kidding. I debate on deleting the comment, but I decide against it. Instead, I close my laptop and sit on my bed.

It's fine. I suppose Kenny _does_ make me happy.

Speaking of Kenny, he is at work by now, so I'm alone and I'm feeling restless. I go downstairs and watch Netflix for a couple hours, but then I get bored. I don't feel like watching anything. Plus, my wrists are getting itchy again.

Like I said, I had to get them stitched up a while ago. Things got really messy. I can't give myself a break. I don't know why. It's like I always need to be fucking my body up in _some_ way. Still, this is better than doing drugs. I'll probably last longer if I'm not damaging my insides. Damaging my outsides is a different story. It'll be fine as long as I don't go overboard. I'll try not to, but I can't make any promises – not to myself, not to anyone else.

I don't really know why I do this. Is there a real, concrete reason? Maybe. I could probably figure it out if I really think about it, but I don't want to do that. It just hurts too fucking bad to think about all the shitty things I've been through. So, maybe I'm trying to numb it. Maybe I want a distraction. Maybe I want relief. Maybe I want punishment. Maybe I just enjoy the pain. I guess, to an extent, I do. That's pretty twisted, isn't it? I am a bit of a masochist. Well, probably.

I bring my legs up onto the sofa and I lie down on my side, letting some pointless comedy play in the background while I think about even more pointless things.

* * *

I get bored and frustrated later on and I end up banging my wrists off the nightstand in my bedroom. They're all purple and black and scabby and gross, but somehow it gives me this sick sense of satisfaction and relief and pleasure all rolled into one.

When Kenny gets home we have sex with the lights on again and he doesn't mention any of my new wounds until we're done. He does it in a way that isn't condescending and piteous.

"So, you were feeling bad today?" he asks as we lie together with our limbs tangled.

"I don't know why," I confess. "I should have been happy. I mean, I got my old job back and stuff."

"That's awesome!" he says happily. "Good for you, dude."

"Thanks," I murmur. "Will it get easier?"

"Maybe," he answers.

"That's not the response I wanted." I let out a long sigh. "Be more optimistic."

"It'll get easier," he says. "Everything will get better. You'll get better. You won't hurt all the time."

I let out a short laugh. "That wasn't convincing."

"Sorry," he apologizes with a little snicker.

"Do you think I can get better?" I ask once I sober.

"I think you can if you want to," he says, "and I think, for the most part, you do want to… but sometimes you don't. You sabotage yourself, especially when you think something good might happen. I think you're a bit scared."

"Hm…" I murmur. "I guess you're right about that."

"So…" he pauses, trailing off. I can tell there is something else he wants to say or ask, but he just doesn't know how to bring it up.

"What is it?" I urge after the silence grows too long.

After another moment, he gently pries with, "What were you thinking when you hurt yourself?"

"I always feel overwhelmed, like I just need some way to let it all out," I admit.

"And it comes out with your blood?" he asks.

"Sure, and some other ways," I say simply.

"Hm," he muses aloud.

I lift my head off his chest and roll over slightly to stare up at him. "Have you ever done it? Apart from when you tried to mess up that tattoo?"

"I tried it when I was a teenager," he confesses. "You probably saw some of the scars. They're pretty faded now, though. I didn't feel like it was something I needed to do. I guess that's why I'd sleep around. People always find different ways to hurt themselves. That was mine, I guess. Sex."

Kenny is covered in scars, head to toe. They're on his face, his shoulders, his back, his stomach, his arms, his legs. I know most of them are probably from his dad, but some of them were bound to be from him. The ones on his forearms are straight and faint and they look like some of the ones I have. That's how I kind of knew.

"Why?" I ask him.

We don't talk about it much, but I _know_ it's his dad.

"I guess I just felt kind of worthless," he admits. "I knew I wasn't going to do anything great with my life. I felt like my existence was kind of… useless. I thought I'd be better off if my mom just had a fuckin' abortion. I was never like my sister. She's probably going places. Me and Kevin are just… fucked up. All the men in my family are especially fucked up. I feel like I'm _so_ fucked up now. I go around giving people all this great advice, but I never take any of it myself."

"Your dad beat the crap out of you for most of your life," I say flatly. "It's not your fault he's a piece of shit."

"Don't," he whispers, looking guilty.

"You're a good person, though," I continue, dismissing his weak attempt to protect his dad. "So is Karen and so is Kevin. You're all good people." He lets out a sharp sigh and I add, "Plus, you saved my life a bunch of times. I never thanked you for it."

He forces a smile, staring up at the ceiling. "You don't have to thank me."

"I should," I say, "but I'm not going to."

He chuckles at that. "Didn't think so."

I smile, sitting up and looking down at him. He glances back at me and we make eye contact. I stare at him – all of him.

"What are you thinking?" he asks me.

I shrug. "You just look like you've been through a lot. It's literally written all over your body."

He sits up so we're facing one another. "I like to believe that we all have shit to go through and it all leads us to where we're supposed to end up. Maybe I had to go through all that shit because I was supposed to end up here with you in this little townhouse."

I smile again. "You're always saying stuff like that."

"Like I said, I'm a bit of a psychic." He winks at me and, somehow, I want to believe him. Maybe he's been right all along. He has so far. I should stop doubting him.

"Yeah, I guess so," I relent. "I'm still sorry about your dad, though."

Kenny wrinkles his nose. "Me, too."

"Do you want to talk about any of it?" I offer.

"There are too many stories," he says. "It'd take forever."

"We have time," I remind him.

He smiles slightly. "All right. I don't remember a lot of them because I was probably too drunk half the time, but I'll try not to scare you away."

"Impossible," I promise. I glance down at the torn up tattoo on his forearm. "I already know about this one," I say, touching my fingertips against the matted skin. "Tell me about the other ones."

He pulls his hair away from his face and points to a large, indented scar near his temple. "I got brought home by the cops for underage drinking when I was seventeen," he explains, sighing as he lets his hair fall back in his face. "When the cops were gone my dad pistol whipped me. He said he was gonna shoot me since all I did was cause him trouble. He started waving his gun around. I dared him because I was miserable as hell. So, he fired, but there was nothin' in it. I laughed at him and he smacked me with it. I wasn't laughing anymore after that."

"Shit," I whisper.

He lets out a short chuckle. "Yeah, shit…" he agrees. There's hidden anger in his tone. Somehow, I can hear it. "Um," he starts again, pointing to a faint, thin scar across his left cheek. He tells me about them all and I sit here quietly, listening.

Some are on account of childhood adventures gone wrong… but just as I knew, many of them are from his dad… his piece-of-shit dad.

I can remember seeing him in school when we were little. He'd have black eyes. He'd be bruised up. The teachers would give him sad looks. Sometimes he'd get called down to the guidance counsellor's office, but I know he never said it was his dad. He probably just said he got into a fight with another student – someone like me. But Kenny was never a fighter and neither was I.

"Your parents _belong_ in prison," I mutter.

Kenny lets out a breath. "Yeah, probably… but even after everything they did to me I still can't hate them. They're my parents and I guess you don't always have to love your parents, but I do."

"Because you're good," I tell him.

He smiles. "Yeah, I guess so. I guess I just want them to accept me, though the realistic part of me knows they never will. They don't care. I don't think they ever really wanted kids, but they ended up with three because they were too stupid to use contraception and too poor for abortions."

"Is that why you have, like, a Daddy kink or whatever you wanna call it?" I ask, trying not to sound grossed out.

Kenny chuckles, flushing. "Um, that… It's complicated. I mean, I guess it's just when I'm feeling particularly sad about my parents – mostly just my dad because he was always the worst. At times I swear he fucking hated me… He said he held no fondness for me. These older guys I bring home… They're nicer to me and, yeah, I know it sounds fucked up… but I kind of substitute the attention they give me for the attention my dad neglected to give me, even though it's sexual. I want that kind of approval."

"That _is_ fucked up," I agree, "and I don't totally get it… but if it helps you, then it's fine. Right? It doesn't matter if it's fucked up."

"Right," he says softly.

"If we were exclusive would you still want to go off with old guys?" I ask him.

"Even if I did I wouldn't," he says. "I know you wouldn't want me to do that and I'd want to be faithful. Plus, you're way more important than whatever brief gratification I get from those other men. I'd just find another way to deal with the way I feel… because let's face it, you're not Daddy material. I'd be the Daddy in this relationship." He starts chuckling at the mere possibility of it.

"Thank God for that," I snort.

* * *

The following day, I get an unpleasant surprise. The doorbell rings and when I go to answer it I see Heidi, Lola and Milly – Becca's former housemates. They rented her room to some other girl since she's in rehab and they have bills to pay.

"What do you want?" I ask them flatly.

"Wow, rude," Lola says.

"Yeah," Milly agrees.

"We have something we want to say," Heidi mentions.

They invite themselves in, shoving past me.

"If this is about Becca, I really don't want to hear it," I tell them. "It's over between us."

"Says who?" Heidi asks

"Says me," I spit out, growing impatient.

They move into the kitchen and sit down at the table. I stand against the counter, arms crossed.

"Well," Milly starts, "she misses you and wants you to visit her. So, do the right thing and go see her."

"I did and I'm not going to again," I say stubbornly.

"Why?" she asks angrily. "She loves you and you love her! Why are you making this so difficult? It could have just as easily been you in her position, you know!"

"I'm sober," I tell them.

"So do the right fucking thing!" Heidi snaps. "It's your fault she's in this mess! You're the one who introduced her to the fucking drug to begin with!"

Ouch.

"I doubt you know the whole story," I bite out. "Stop fucking pretending you do."

Milly gives a careless sigh. "What's to know? Your story is so typical. Broody boy attracts the attention of a cheerleader. She thinks she can help him with whatever his stupid trauma is. She can't and instead she gets dragged into his bullshit."

"That's not it at all," I say tersely.

"What's your trauma, then?" she pries. "Were you abused? Bullied?" A pause. "Molested?"

"Shut up!" I practically shriek, sounding shrill. I feel trapped, like they're trying to corner me.

They all look taken aback at first, but then Milly breaks the silence. "Rebecca always told us you had a temper, but we didn't believe her. You were always so quiet in school."

"Did you hit her?" Lola asks, cutting in. "Maybe that's why she stayed."

I can appreciate that they are trying to do what they think is the right thing, but they're being fucking annoying and horrible about it!

"Don't fucking say shit like that!" I continue shouting. I start waving my hands around, growing angry and distressed. "I wouldn't ever hit her, so don't you DARE fucking say that!"

Before any of them can respond, Kenny appears. He looks groggy, like he just woke up and he's still in his pyjamas. "What the fuck are you all screaming about?" he asks, rubbing his eyes and moving to the fridge. He pours a glass of orange juice and then turns to us expectantly.

"Becca's old friends decided to pay me a visit," I explain with distaste.

"How nice," he responds sarcastically.

"I can't even fucking do this," I mutter, walking out of the kitchen. I half expect the girls to follow, but they don't. I'm glad about that. I retreat upstairs and into my room, locking the door so no one can disturb me.

A few seconds later, I hear a knock on my door followed by, "I'm not done talking to you!"

It's Milly.

"Well, I'm done talking to you!" I respond angrily. I open my closet and sit on the floor inside before closing the doors.

I hear her say something else, but I can't make out what it is. So, I ignore her and pretend she's not talking to me at all.

After what's probably ten minutes or so, I hear the front door open and close. I guess Kenny kicked them out. Soon, I hear footsteps coming up the stairs and then a knock on my door.

"What?" I call, crawling out of my closet.

"Open up!" Kenny calls back.

With a groan, I relent and let him in.

"They left," he says.

"I know," I say. "I lost my temper. The things they were saying…"

"You know how they are," Kenny retorts. "They were probably trying to get a reaction out of you."

"They don't even know the whole story," I murmur.

"I know," he agrees, "and I know you're probably gonna hate me for this… but I told them about the miscarriage. Sorry if I wasn't supposed to."

I sit on the edge of my bed and close my eyes, sighing. "Oh…"

"They didn't know," Kenny reveals.

"Of course," I mutter. "Becca wanted me to look like the bad guy so they'd drag me back to visit her when in reality we're both shit. I did wrong and she did wrong."

Kenny sits with me, patting my thigh. "Clearly Becca really wants you to come see her again."

"I'm _not_ going to," I murmur.

I fucking can't.

* * *

Summer is finally approaching and the snow is finally beginning to melt. I'm done community service, thank fuck, but I'm still trying to attend meeting whenever I can. I'm trying to stay on track and avoid the hard stuff. I've been running again. Kenny drags me to the gym with him most mornings, so I've been waking up pretty early. I'm usually cranky, but it feels good to have my sleep schedule back to normal.

Since I'm shallow and insecure, my biggest priority was to look good so I'd feel good.

And I do.

On Friday, Kenny forces me out to some fancy cocktail bar with Bebe, Clyde, Jason and Jason's latest fling. I have one too many bellinis, but I feel all right. Kenny cuts me off around midnight.

"So, you guys seem pretty friendly lately," Bebe mentions, deciding to be the first one to bring it up. I know Clyde's been thinking about it, though.

I glance at Kenny. "Yeah, we have been," I say vaguely and he smiles at me, wiggling his eyebrows.

"So, does that mean what we all think it means?" Bebe pries.

"Yes," I respond. "We're fucking. We've been fucking for years."

Bebe looks surprised. Her jaw drops and she says, "Wow… and here I was thinking this was a new development. I pride myself being hot on all the gossip, but I never would've guessed this."

"I'm good at keeping secrets," Kenny says with a wink.

"I'm not even shocked," Jason snorts.

"Ass," I mutter.

"Chill, Looney Tunes," Jason says.

"I'm _not_ crazy," I retort sharply.

"You are a _little_ crazy," he insists.

I glance at Bebe and Clyde, silently asking them if they feel the same way. They insist they don't, but the hesitance says more than what comes out of their mouths.

"We're all a little crazy," Kenny says.

I just sneer at the cliché and just like that I'm moody for the rest of the night. I keep my mouth shut because I know if I talk I'll just say something rude and regret it five minutes later. I'm trying to practise a little hindsight lately instead of always running my mouth.

An hour later, Kenny says he's getting tired. I know he's lying. He just knows I feel like shit and he wants to take me home.

He pats my back and says, "Let's go, Craig." I stand up and watch as Kenny waves to everyone. With that, the two of us leave the bar.

As soon as we're outside, he pulls me into a kiss.

"What was that for?" I ask.

"Go with me," he says.

"Go where?"

He lets out a little chuckle. "I mean, like… be exclusive with me. _Go_ with me."

"Oh," I say with a laugh. "Yeah, okay." He smiles wide and he kisses me again. After a moment, I pull back and stare at him. "Don't hurt me, okay?"

"I won't," he promises.

"If we're going to really do this, you _can't_ hurt me."

"I won't," he promises again. "I love you."

I don't respond, I just peck him on the lips and hand him my car keys. "Let's go home and you can show me how much you love me."

* * *

The following morning, I wake up hearing the click of the lock followed by Uno barking. I glance at Kenny, who is still dead to the world. I debate on waking him, but I decide against it. Instead, I jump out of bed stark-nude and panicked when I hear the door open. I tiptoe out of my room, grabbing an umbrella for protection as I glance around.

When I enter the kitchen, I'm surprised to see the last person I expected. Becca.

"How'd you get in?" I practically croak, still wielding the umbrella.

She holds the hide-a-key up, answering my question. "What the fuck are you holding?" she asks me, gesturing to my umbrella.

"Jesus!" I exclaim, dropping it and grabbing a dish cloth to cover my crotch.

She rolls her eyes. She helps herself to a glass of OJ and says, "Nothing I have seen before."

"I didn't know you got out," I say hoarsely.

"This morning," she reveals. "Didn't have anywhere to go, though. My parents aren't being very supportive."

"Have you given them a reason to be?" I ask her somewhat bitterly.

"I guess not," she admits, "but you should never give up on your children, Craig."

I can only scoff.

She's waiting for me to tell her she can stay here… but I don't know. Things are going so fucking well for me right now and she's going to ruin it. I'll let her ruin it because I'm fucking weak.

All I can bring myself to say is, "You should have knocked."

She laughs at that. "And you should have fucking visited me… but how could you when you can't even make eye contact at me. Come on, Craig. Fucking _look_ at me!"

I force myself to. She looks normal. Pretty. Healthier. Much healthier than she looked the last time I saw her… but I still feel uneasy about her presence. I don't know if she even plans on staying sober.

"And stop acting like an insecure child," she says.

I discard the cloth and cross my arms, but I can't help feeling both insecure and childish.

"You look really good," she says, looking me up and down. "I'm impressed."

"I'm sober," I murmur.

She rolls her eyes. "How long is that gonna last?"

I let out a sharp sigh. "I could ask you the same question."

I'm about to turn around, but she stops me and grabs my arm. "Aren't you going to give me a proper welcome?" she asks before leaning forward and pushing her lips against mine.

I break the contact, turning my head to the side. "Don't," I murmur.

"You're still mad?"

I don't respond. I turn away and run upstairs into my bedroom, locking the door and waking Kenny up. I shake him until he starts groaning. "Whaaaat?" he asks groggily.

"Wake up!" I hiss at him. I grab a pair of sweatpants from my dresser, throwing them on along with a long-sleeved shirt. Next, I find something for Kenny to wear. I throw the clothes at him and he looks stunned.

"Are you going to tell me what the hell is going on?" he asks.

"Becca got out of rehab and she's in the kitchen," I say.

Kenny's jaw drops. "Oh, wow… I didn't see that coming."

"Ugh…!" I groan, holding my head. "I don't know what to do…"

He stands up and gets dressed in the clothes I tossed him. "Let's go deal with it."

Back downstairs, Becca is sitting at the kitchen table looking like she's been waiting. She looks thoroughly unimpressed with me. I wish I didn't care, but I still do. A lot.

"Red," Kenny greets her wearily. "You're out of rehab, congratulations."

I can tell he wants her to leave. I don't know if he feels jealous or if he's just worried having her back will stifle any progress I might've made. Maybe he's also worried I might go back to her. All I know right now is that, as conflicted as I feel, that is the last thing I want.

"You sound so thrilled for me," she retorts, standing up and crossing her arms.

"Look, what do you want?" he asks her.

"Let me stay here," she says. "Just like old times. It's not like you'll even need to see me. I'll be in Craig's room."

Kenny rolls his eyes. "A lot of shit has changed since you went away. You can't stay in Craig's room."

She scoffs. "Why the hell not and why can't Craig just tell me all this himself? Why does he need you to talk for him?"

"I don't want to be with you," I tell her.

"Fucking look at me when you say it," she bites back.

I let out a sigh, lifting my head to face her. "I don't want to be with you."

"Why?" she asks.

"Because you lied to me," I say coldly. She doesn't even feel like the same person. She's completely changed.

She laughs in disbelief. "What?"

"You can stay in the guest room, but you can't stay in my room," I offer. "And if you're going to be staying here, there's another thing you should know." I glance at Kenny, unsure how to word it. "Uh, I'm seeing someone new."

She raises an eyebrow. "Who…?"

Kenny puts his arm around me and says, "Me."

Becca's jaw drops. "What?" she gapes. "You've got to be fucking kidding me!"

"It's just like Kenny said – a lot has changed," I say. "I've changed the most."

She shakes her head, refusing to believe it. "This makes no fucking sense… God… You were always telling me you weren't gay and you didn't want things going up your ass."

"I was overcompensating," I tell her dully. "Besides... I'm not gay. I don't really know what I am."

"Want me to give you guys a moment?" Kenny asks.

I let out a sigh. "I guess."

With that, he leaves the room. I know he's just hovering in the living room, probably listening to everything we're about to say. It's okay, though. I'd just end up telling him.

"So, this is it?" Becca asks me.

"I suppose it is," I tell her.

She closes his eyes and shakes her head. "But I love you…" she confesses weakly.

I let out a sigh. "Yeah and I love you… but not like I used to. It's changed. I've changed. You've changed. Everything has changed. It's all ruined, but I found something good amongst all the wreckage. I found Kenny and I'm going to stay with him because he makes me fucking happy. He's stable... and I need stability, especially at this point in my life. He makes me feel safe."

"And I don't," she murmurs.

"You used to, if it's any consolation," I tell her. "I just think it's bad for us to be together because we'll just go back to old ways. I need someone who doesn't have the same problems that I have because that's the only way I can have a stable relationship."

"You can't ever have a stable relationship, Craig," she says. "That's your fucking problem. You're unstable in all aspects of your life."

"Maybe you're right," I admit with a shrug, refusing to let the comment get to me, "but I can try… and I'm going to try with him."

She smiles, but it's lackluster.

"You can have the guest room until you find somewhere else to stay," I say with finality.

"Y'know what…?" she murmurs. "Don't worry about it. My shit is still at my old apartment. They packed everything in boxes, but I'm sure they'll let me crash on the sofa for a few days until I figure things out or find a job. I think they're mad at me for lying about some stuff and I know they probably aren't expecting me back, but…" She trails off and shrugs. "It's fine. It'll be fine. I'll work it out with them."

"All right," I say. "Look… if it doesn't work out, our door is open."

"Thanks," she whispers.

"And for what it's worth, I'm sorry for everything."

"Me, too," she responds quietly. "I mean that."

After that, I walk her out. For some reason, it feels like I'm saying goodbye. Maybe, in a way, I am. There's no going back now.

"You okay?" Kenny asks when she's gone.

"I am," I say, "but I don't know about her."

"She's not your responsibility," he offers. "All you have to do is continue to take care of yourself. You can't worry about other people as much when you're unwell. Sometimes you need to be selfish."

"I'll try…"

"So, did you tell her that me and you aren't exactly a new development?" he asks.

I shake my head. "I would have told her if I was still with her," I admit, "but I'm not… so to hurt her like that seems completely pointless now. I'm with you and you know all my secrets."

"Do I?" he wonders.

I stare at him. "Yeah, what wouldn't you know?"

He smiles and shrugs, pecking me on the lips before turning into the kitchen. I follow and watch as he sets his now-empty cup of orange juice in the sink. When he turns my way he asks, "Do you think her being back will change the way things have been going?"

So, as I thought, that's what's been on his mind.

"With us?" I question.

"Well, with everything," he says.

"No," I promise him. "At least as long as I can help it… and no, before you ask, I'll never be with her again. I'm with you now and I don't want to be with anyone but you."

He smiles, looking reassured.

"She kissed me," I add, not wanting to keep it a secret.

"How'd it feel?" he pries.

"Familiar," I admit, unsure how else to describe it.

He shrugs and smiles again. "It's fine. I know you have an extensive history with her, but I also know that it wasn't easy for you to make it as far as you did with me. You won't throw that away."

"Yeah," I whisper.

I feel like I could really love him. Maybe I already do, but I don't want to ruin everything by saying it too soon. I know Kenny has said it many times before and he'll probably continue to say it, but he doesn't know I feel the way I do. I want to pick the right time to finally get the words out. I want him to understand how much it fucking means because I never thought I'd ever love anyone else.

I used to feel like I had to hide parts of myself to stay sane, but I don't feel that way with Kenny.

So, I smile back at him and he says, "Come, I'll make breakfast."


	9. A transformation

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

 **Thank you guys for always commenting kindly c: Sorry updates are a little slow lately I'm super preoccupied lately (in a good way). Me and two of my friends are planning our Disney World trip in a few months (none of us have been there before) so it'll be super fun. I also had a job interview for a seasonal position (that pays very well).**

 **This is the last chapter before the epilogue, which is going to be very bittersweet.**

* * *

The snow is gone.

Becca got arrested a few weeks after she left my house. It was hard to watch her go and even harder when I found out she fell back into her dangerous habits. I hear her parents are going nuts trying to reign her back in, but she won't have any of it. Contrary to what she thinks, they're actually trying.

I know she isn't staying with her girlfriends. I don't even want to think about where she's crashing or how she's making a living. She's probably doing some of the things I was doing because that's what fucking happens. So damn typical I could just throw up.

I started going to therapy. Apparently I also have some form of PTSD on top of being a borderline disaster. I'm trying to cope with my disorder instead of run away from it. My doctor told me to try and search for the strength within it. I thought that sounded fucking impossible and fucking stupid, but I began to contemplate and now I'm beginning to understand. It lets me see the truth. It lets everyone else see the truth, too. The anger. The gut reactions. The sadness. The happiness. All of the emotions in their purest, most intense form. Never censored. _That's_ the truth. It's _my_ truth. For now, it'll have to do. Still, it doesn't change the fact that I'm trying to better myself. I have to. I can't keep living like this. It's hard to feel everything so deeply.

I've been feeling pretty bad again lately. I feel like Becca's reappearance kind of made things worse. I can't even blame her for it, though. I'm letting it all happen.

I need to practise mindfulness and radical acceptance. It is what it is, right? I can't change that and just because I radically accept something, it doesn't mean I approve of it. I simply recognize that these are the facts and I can't change the past. Still, for a person like me it's a challenging concept to grasp.

Nothing changes if nothing changes and in some cases nothing CAN change.

I don't want to go backwards. I want to go forwards, but Kenny is busy lately. He's picking up a lot of extra shifts. So, I'm spending the weekend at my parents' house.

Ruby is excited. She's the one that initially suggested it. I saw her at Tweek Bros again last weekend and she called me out on looking depressed as fuck.

"Are you excited?" Kenny asks, hovering in my doorway as I pack a bag.

"I guess so," I admit. "I don't want to mess up again. I'm scared I'll do something or say something that I shouldn't."

"Just be yourself," Kenny says simply.

I roll my eyes. "Stupid advice to give to someone who is socially challenged, unstable and has virtually no sense of self," I remind him.

He just smiles. "They're your family. They won't mind. They're not about to scrutinize you. They're just going to be happy you're home again, trust me."

And I know he's probably right. They've wanted me to come home for a while now and they want me to stay for more than just a few minutes this time.

So, I finish getting my things together and then I help Kenny make lunch. _Help_ is a pretty loose term. I can't really cook. I just boil the water and stir. I stare into the water as Kenny tosses ingredients in and chops up the vegetables. I feel like I could zone out just by watching the soup swirl around.

"Am I annoying?" I wonder out loud.

"No," Kenny says without hesitation. "You're a lot of things, Craig Tucker, but annoying definitely isn't one of them."

"I'm in constant need of reassurance," I point out. "I have a lot of fits. I'm prone to addiction. I have mood swings all the time… I'm too much of literally everything." I continue listing of all my flaws and he just smiles again.

"Well, I don't think any of that makes you annoying," he says when I quiet. "We all have our struggles."

And I guess he's right.

* * *

After we eat, I drop Kenny off at work and then drive over to my parents' place.

It's good to have my licence back. Driving makes me feel independent and sometimes I need to feel like I'm independent even though I know I'm not really in the grand scheme of things.

I'm about to knock, but I pause and simply let myself in. I shouldn't feel like such a stranger in a house that used to be my home.

"I'm here!" I call once I'm inside. I shut the door behind myself, setting my overnight bag down before removing my shoes.

My parents come out to greet me with affection. They look pleased to see me.

"Ruby is on her way home," Mom adds.

"Where is she?" I pry.

"Picking up a few things for dinner."

"Oh." I nod my head.

"Er, there's something we want to talk to you about," Dad cuts in.

I start to get nervous. I hate that conversation starter. "Uh… what is it?"

"As you know, your grandmother left you some money," he mentions.

"Right," I say, nodding my head slowly.

"We think you're ready to have it," Mom cuts in.

I force a smile, though money is the last thing on my mind. "Thanks," I say.

"We can sort the finances out later," she says, putting a hand on my shoulder. "For now, why don't you take a look at some of the things of hers we kept?"

"All right," I agree and she leads me out of the kitchen and into the living room. I sit on the sofa and she brings out a few brown boxes, opening them.

The first thing I touch is a photo album. I grab it, pulling it out before opening it up. I leaf through the pages, staring down at the photographs of me as a child. Ruby and Becca are in just as many of them. I stare down at the pictures of us, young and smiling. It makes me think of that nursery rhyme again –

 _One, two, three, four, five, six, seven  
All good children go to heaven  
Some fly east  
Some fly west  
Some fly over the cuckoo's nest_

I engrained it into my head. None of the others stuck, but I liked this one. I think back then I wanted so desperately to be good and whole and pure, the perfect child. The promise of heaven was enticing and I wanted to ensure a seat. The macabre undertones of the rhyme also fascinated me because to go to heaven you have to die. Even as a kid, I knew that much. I guess I've always been a little grim. But like Peter Pan said – _to die would be an awfully big adventure_. I tried that out. Oh, well. I was never one for big adventures anyway.

I close my eyes for a moment, feeling like I'm in a bit of a daze. I guess it's the nostalgia and all the strange memories that seem to find me at times like this.

I remember all the bubble baths I took with Becca when we were kids. We'd sit and play until the bubbles went away and our fingertips wrinkled. I remember all the nights she stayed up helping me study because I was such a slacker. We'd sit in my room and stay up so late we wouldn't even remember falling asleep. I remember how much comfort and reassurance she offered me. There were times I felt lost without her. I remember all the good things and I'll keep remembering them, but I no longer feel lost without her. I guess that means I'll be able to move on. Someday... but until then, the guilt is a reminder. I can't see that disappearing any time soon.

I feel my eyes grow glassy and, with sympathy, my mom asks me what's wrong.

I just force a good-natured laugh and say, "Nothing. Just feeling a bit sad."

* * *

Becca's parents end up coming over the later in the day. I haven't seen them in a really, really long time and their surprise visit takes me off guard when I answer the door.

They end up trying to guilt me about Becca. I guess they heard that I'd be around. Goodie.

They tell me how hard they tried to get her back into rehab and how hard they tried to at least get her to come home. All I can do is continue to apologize. I feel like I'll probably be apologizing for the rest of my life. The words aren't even measureable because they can't communicate how fucking sorry I feel.

Becca's parents were always a lot more stubborn than mine. They need to be right and they need things to go their way. That's why Becca won't go back home to them. They raised her the same way and there's no way a house full of people like that can get along.

I'm so full of guilt it's overwhelming. I feel sick and they keep throwing all these justifiable accusations in my face until my parents cut in.

"Craig made some mistakes," Dad says, "but he's working on fixing them."

"About Rebecca…" Mom cuts in. "We're all sorry and I'm sure Craig is the most regretful."

"I am," I say weakly, "and I've tried to help her… but she didn't want my help."

Her parents aren't swayed. "You got her into this mess, you can get her out!"

"That's what I thought, too," I murmur, "but it isn't true. I've learned that and I think everyone in my life has learned it, too."

With that, I turn away, taking my overnight bag and and bringing it upstairs to my old room. I try not to let the guilt get to me. Everything is the same as I left it and for that I'm glad.

I don't want my parents to start a fight with some of their oldest friends all because of me. I want them all to just stop arguing. I want so fucking badly to make things right with Becca, but it seems impossible. You can't save people. I think that's truly a lesson we've all learned.

But Kenny saved me, right? Then again, maybe I was ready. Maybe I was just waiting for someone to help me. Becca isn't ready and she isn't waiting. Maybe someday I'll get through to her. Maybe somehow she'll realize she wants more for herself – kind of like how I did, but hopefully she doesn't have to go through what I did to realize it. When it comes to life and death, it isn't always about what the other person wants.

When I hear the front door shut, I know her parents are gone. I stay still and a few minutes later my door swings open. My parents ask me if I'm okay. I tell them I'm fine. Then I force a smile in an attempt to prove it. They leave after that, going back downstairs to tidy up before they start cooking.

I let out a breath, feeling restless. I scratch as some of the fresh cuts in my arms before forcing myself to move. I go back downstairs, slipping my sneakers on. Before I can make a clean getaway, Ruby is behind me.

"You're leaving already?"

"Ah, you're home," I note.

"I came in when Rebecca's parents were leaving," she explains.

"Oh," I murmur.

"I had to drop the groceries in the kitchen, but I was about to come up and see you…" she says. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I tell her.

After a minute, my parents pop out of the kitchen. "Where are you heading?" they immediately ask, noticing that I have my shoes on.

"Just for a walk," I tell them.

"Just a walk?" Ruby pries.

"Yes," I say. "I want some time to think and I feel crowded in here."

"I'll come," Ruby suggests.

"I want to be alone," I say.

She frowns and my parents frown and they all look fucking disappointed. I hate it. I don't want to disappoint them. I've already done it enough times in the past. I don't want to keep doing it.

"I'm sorry," I murmur before taking my leave. I jog down the driveway and turn down the street, slowing my pace once I reach the end of the road. I pause, taking a deep breath and contemplating where I want to go from here.

Instead of going to Tweek Bros or heading to the park, I decide to walk to the shitty part of town. It's a bad idea, but I want to see if I can find Becca. I want to talk to her. I need to talk to her.

I shove my hands into the pocket of my sweatshirt and walk with purpose. Some guys shout at me through an open window as they speed by in a car. That's how you can tell you're close. I ignore them and head to an abandoned building where kids like to hang around. I've been here a few times in the past, but that was before me and Becca realized we preferred to do our drugs in the safety of my bedroom rather than a place like his.

I glance around the rooms I walk past until I spot a head of familiar red hair seated on a ratty looking futon.

"Becca?" I call, unsure if it's her.

Nonetheless, it is. She turns around, standing when she spots me. "Hey," she says to me, approaching. "What are you doing here? Aren't you sober?"

"Yeah, I just… wanted to talk about something," I say, grabbing the sleeve of her shirt and pulling her out of the room and into the hall.

"What is it, then?" she asks.

"Let's go for a walk," I suggest, nodding for her to follow me out.

She does and we're both silent until we're back in the sun.

"Come back with me, Becca," I plead with her.

She shakes her head and then lets out a raspy laugh. "This is what you want to talk to me about?" she scoffs. "God, I have nothing, Craig… No one wants to hire a drug addicted felon. I can't even function anymore."

"So get sober," I tell her. "You did it once, you can do it again."

She shakes her head again. "All these years it's always been about you… You and your disorder and you're nightmares and your panic attacks and your disgusting uncle…"

"If you're so bitter, why'd you stick around?" I bite out.

"You were my boyfriend," she explains simply. "I knew it was the right thing to do… and I'm not bitter about it. I'm just stating a fact. You always need to be the center of attention, even though you act like you hate attention. You crave it and when you aren't receiving it, you get upset. You demonize people who disappoint you. You hold grudges that are so fucking ridiculous. You overreact. You're cranky. You lie. You pretend you don't feel the way you feel… You think it'll make everything easier, but it never does. Then it all goes to shit and blows up in your face and in everyone else's face, too."

I feel like fucking crying because she's being cruel, but I won't. Not yet.

"So, what's how you feel about me?" I ask her shakily.

"Cry if you want to," she says, reading me easily.

I shake my head. "No."

She lets out a sigh. "For a long time, I _wanted_ to see you cry. I thought it'd bring us closer together, but when you finally did, when you finally bared your fucking soul for me, all I did was walk away. I don't even know why I did that. I felt bad about it as I was doing it, but I was also so angry and, plus, I'm a fuckin' junky… It changes people. You were pissing me off. It was then that I kind of realized I was part of the problem and I was just another person putting you in pain. I'm yet another person who doesn't understand what you go through and I just ended up making it worse. I hit you. Christ, I actually slapped you for no good reason… and I'm sorry. I keep thinking that if we stayed together, then it'd probably turn into an abusive relationship."

I breathe quietly. "I'm a different person. You could be, too, you know."

And I say that because she HAS changed. She's changed for the worse because that's what often happens when all that matters is the high.

"It's too hard to change," she murmurs. "Do you miss it?" she asks out of the blue. I don't have to ask what she's referring to. She means junk.

"Yeah," I confess, "but Kenny has me on such a tight leash that I'd never be able to hide it from him. I wouldn't want to even if I could."

"That sounds unhealthy," she says.

I just shrug. "I want him to keep me on that leash. Maybe it'd be unhealthy if I didn't, but I he makes me feel safe and I want him to take care of me. Plus, it's what he wants, too... and I'll take care of him in return."

"You've changed a lot," she says.

"I know," I respond. "I think it's a good thing."

"I never thought you'd end up with a man," she adds. "I thought you'd just end up with me. I thought we'd be forever... end game. It's weird. Really weird."

"Like you said, I've changed."

"Just go home, Craig," she says wearily. "You can't save me, just like I could never save you. People can't be saved. We can only save ourselves and I'm still not ready for it. I don't think I ever will be, so just leave me alone."

I smile bitterly. "It's like we changed roles. I'm the optimist and you're stuck where you are."

She smiles in return. "Yeah, I guess so…" She pauses and then adds, "I'm probably going to leave town. I met some people who are travelling and they seem cool… They have extra space in their van, too. So, I might go with them."

I nod my head. "That's great, Becca."

I don't know if she's lying. I don't know if she's pretending she's got some great plan just so I won't feel like such road kill for ruining her life. Either way, that feeling isn't going to leave me any time in the near or distant future.

"I saw your parents earlier," I finally say. "They came to my parents' house. They blamed me for losing you. I can't really deny it."

"It's not your fault," she says. "Sure, you introduced me to heroin, but I can't keep pretending to be such a victim. I can't blame you for everything. I have free will. Sure, the drug makes it kind of hard… but I don't even want to fucking stop."

"I felt that way, too," I murmur, "but then I got scared. I feel like I used to blame my uncle for every shitty thing I put myself through... but after a while, it's hard to keep using that as an excuse for continuously wrecking myself and everyone around me."

"I know," she whispers. "I forgive you, all right? I never really blamed you, even if I acted like I did. So, I don't feel like I even need to forgive you… but I think you need to hear it, so I'll say it. I forgive you."

"Thanks," I whisper back.

And this is where we both part ways. She turns away and I watch her walk back towards the direction of the abandoned building.

"I love you," I call after her.

She turns around and smiles again. "I love you, too!" she calls back. "Always have, always will!"

* * *

I sniffle a bit on my way home. When I am back inside, my parents are ready to grill me with questions, but they stop when they see the look I must be wearing.

"Sweetie, what happened?" Mom asks, voice laced in sympathy.

I rub a hand down my inevitably weary expression and let out a string of sobs. I press my fingertips to my closed eyes before they can start to leak down my face. I let out a string of heavy, heaving breaths. I feel like I'm gonna choke. I feel like I can't fucking get enough air in. I still feel stupid and childish for crying, but I can't help it.

Let it out, right? Letting it out is the only way to let go... and maybe that's what I need to do.

It felt like another goodbye and goodbyes aren't just for a few days at a time. They're more permanent. They're longer. Sometimes they're forever.

My parents try to console me, even though they have no idea what's going on. I'd tell them, but I can't find the words.

* * *

I end up in my old room in the dark with the blinds closed and the door shut. My parents are downstairs making dinner, but they told me to yell if I need anything.

When I'm all cried out, I call Clyde.

"How's Uno?" I ask, since Clyde will be dog-sitting on the nights Kenny can't be home.

" _Good!_ " he says. " _We're watchin' Netflix."_

After pleasantries, he asks me how I feel. I tell him I feel like shit and I tell him why. I tell him about Becca and about her parents and that I feel fucking hopeless.

" _What can I do_?" I hear him ask.

"Just… talk," I say. "About anything."

So, he decides to tell me some horribly offensive jokes and some even worse stories that start with "that one time" and "remember when." Soon enough, he manages to get a laugh out of me and I decide to tell him I'll talk to him later, thanking him before hanging up my cellphone. I set it on my nightstand before changing out of my day clothes. I put on my pajamas – plaid pants and a grey shirt with long sleeves – getting comfortable before heading back downstairs. I force a smile and my parents look relieved to see that I'm not moping.

I sit in the kitchen with Ruby and talk with my parents as they cook together. They've always cooked together. I thought that was nice.

Around seven, we eat. I'm not particularly hungry because I'm too filled with anxiety, but I manage to force a little food down.

I think they can sense that I'm trying. This time, I really am.

* * *

Before going to bed, I move towards my parents' bedroom. I knock once and then twice before pushing the door open.

"Hey, babe," my mom greets. She's wearing a pair of reading glasses and in her hands is a copy of Hemingway's _The Old Man and the Sea_. He was an alcoholic misogynist, but that's how it goes with lots of old writers. Sometimes I think my mom likes to read these books just to think critically about them and pull them apart sentence by sentence.

"Feeling better?" Dad asks. There's an iPad on his lap.

"Yeah," I say, stepping into their room.

Mom puts her book down, marking the page. She sets it on the nightstand along with her reading glasses. "Do you want to tell us what happened?"

Since I'm trying to be a better son, I decide to be honest in the meantime. "I saw Becca."

She nods her head understandingly and my dad pries with, "Do you think you'll try to work things out?"

"It's impossible," I say simply. I can't help but think about the baby, all the other lies, the things we said to one another, how shitty we've made one another feel. Then Kenny springs to mind.

"Craig, talk to us… please…" Mom pleads when I feel myself begin to zone out.

I stare into empty space, contemplating how much I should tell them and how much I should keep to myself. I let out a heavy breath. "I, uh, got her pregnant," I murmur airily, trying to distance myself from what I'm saying.

They both look visibly surprised, but they don't express it with words. Nonetheless, it's written all over their faces.

"But the baby… she died," I add in a pained whisper.

Mom closes her eyes, letting out a breath while my dad simply says, "Christ…"

"She kept it a secret until it was too late," I murmur. "She pretended to be sober. I should've fucking known she wasn't… but I wanted to believe she was… and then more time passed and everything was wrecked."

"Craig, sweetie, you couldn't've prevented that from happening," Mom reasons gently. "Don't blame yourself for her miscarriage."

I feel the sting behind my eyes coming back. Great, more tears. "It's fucking impossible not to… None of this would have happened if I didn't get her hooked on drugs in the first place."

"Craig, come sit down," Mom says, pointing to the mattress they're both sitting on.

With a sigh, I move even further into the room and I sit near the bottom of the bed.

"Does she blame you for it?" Dad asks suddenly.

"No," I mutter. "It's like she doesn't even care or remember it happened."

"Then you can't blame yourself," he continues, "and even if it was all your fault, you need to learn to forgive yourself. Otherwise, you'll never move on. Everybody makes mistakes in life. It's all about learning from them."

I swallow the lump in my throat, closing my eyes and trying to will away any unfallen tears. "Either way… I'm dating someone new now."

"Oh, that's great!" Mom says excitedly. "Who is she?"

I smile cynically, opening my eyes. "She is a _he_. It's Kenny."

Instead of acting all shocked, they both smile. "I always liked that boy," Dad says, nodding with approval.

"He… makes me happy," I confess, "and he loves me. He always has."

"You should invite him over one of these days," Mom suggests.

"Aha… maybe," I say with a nervous chuckle. "Uh… he helped me get sober," I add. "I guess I was finally ready."

"What made you realize you were ready?" Dad pries.

I pause, not wanting to get into it. Honesty, right? Well, I don't want to lie, either. "It was all pretty seedy, but I got involved in a more dangerous side of things and… Well, I got roughed up a bit. Then I got scared. I didn't want it to keep happening, so I decided I was ready to make a change."

They probably understand what I mean because they both look so fucking heartbroken, but I don't want to choke the words out and say I got myself fucking raped again.

"Anyway," I continue, "Kenny's… He's always patient. He understands me and he understands my disorder even more than Becca did."

"Sounds like you found _the one_ ," Dad says.

"Maybe," I muse.

"Listen," Mom interjects and by the tone of her voice, I can tell she is changing the subject to something a little more serious. "Your sister told us some things… Some things we were never sure of when you were younger."

"I thought so," I say evenly.

I'm not mad at her for it. She probably wanted to give my parents a solid reason for why I went off the rails and why I was doing a drug like heroin.

"I won't ask why you never told us," she continues. "I know these things are complicated and I'll never be able to understand it on the level that you do… but just know that me, your father and Ruby… we're all here for you and none of what happened is your fault."

"Thanks," I murmur, "but, um, I don't really want to talk about things like that right now… Can we keep talking about other stuff?"

She smiles gently. "Of course."

So, we do. I talk about my work and my dog and I talk about some of the simpler, happier things that have been going on in my life. They're few and very far between, but it's better than dwelling on all the sad stuff. I don't want to talk about all the bad things in one night. It'll take time to get it all out. I've got years' worth of shit saved up, stuff my parents will probably want to know about.

After a while I stand up. I tell them I love them and they say they love me and then I turn away. When I leave the room, Ruby is standing in the hallway.

"You were listening," I say knowingly after shutting my parents' bedroom door.

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

I just shrug. "Whatever…"

Out of the blue, she throws her arms around me. I relax in her hold, putting an arm around her in return. For a long time, she doesn't let go. I don't dare push her away. I'm done pushing people away. Well, at least I hope I am.

When she finally releases me, she stares at me. It's weird. She's slightly taller than me by now. By the time she stops growing, she'll probably be quite a lot taller.

"I'm not mad at you for telling them what you told them," I tell her. "I know why you did it. You wanted to tell them that it wasn't their fault I turned out the way I did. It was because of something else – something they couldn't control."

"Yeah," she whispers. "I'm still sorry… about everything. All of it."

"It's okay," I say. "I feel okay. Better than I've felt in a long time."

"That's what happens when you let out your emotions," she explains, smiling a small smile. "You feel better."

"I get that now," I admit. "I used to think it was a weakness… and that holding it in would make me seem stronger…" I trail off, shrugging. "I was wrong."

"Learn from your mistakes," Ruby says.

"I have," I respond.

Fuck knows I've made a lot.

She smiles again. "Then that's what matters," she says decidedly. "Anyway, goodnight, Craig."

"G'night, Ruby," I echo, turning into my old bedroom. I close the door, moving into the bed. It's comfortable here. It's familiar, too. I think I'll make more visits from now on. So far, it's proved to be a good thing. I guess parents have a way of making things better. I missed that kind of reassurance. There's something about parental reassurance that can't compare with the reassurance of a friend or lover.

I close my eyes and think about the day's events, glazing over Becca. I won't think about her anymore. I don't think she wants me to think about her anymore. I think we both want to move on.

I just hope someday it'll stop hurting.

* * *

When the weekend is over, I make my way back to my house. I feel elated and really good about patching things up with my parents. I check the mailbox and find wedding invitations for me and Kenny. They're from Marjorine. I smile to myself, opening the envelop and reading the invite.

Inside, Uno greets me. I set the mail on the corner table and kneel down to pet him. "Hey, buddy… Miss me?"

After removing my sneakers, I'm about to move into the kitchen when something in the living room catches my eye. Clyde is asleep on the sofa. I guess he spent the night here. I won't wake him up.

I grab a glass of water, downing it before heading upstairs and into my room, dropping my bag. Next, I head to Kenny's room. He's asleep. He probably had a late night. I won't wake him up, either.

I decide to take a shower. I lock the door and turn on the taps, undressing. I stare at myself in the mirror, turning my arms over to bare my wrists. They're a mess. I sigh, staring down at them. Cuts, burns, bruises…

I didn't tell my parents about this part. Maybe I will someday. I just don't want to keep worrying them. Until I do tell them, I'll try to stop. Just because no one else is abusing me, it doesn't mean I have to abuse myself. It might give me temporary relief, but in the long run it won't change a damn thing. I wish I could get that through my thick fucking head.

I turn around and step into the shower and begin to wash up. It feels good to have a moment to myself. I'm always surrounded by people. I don't mind it, but sometimes I need to be alone. For the longest time, I felt like this was the only place I could be alone. I felt that if I told someone I wanted to be alone, they'd take it personally. I felt like if I told someone to let me be, then they wouldn't come back. I don't feel that way anymore. I think people understand. I mean, everyone needs to be alone at times. I just crave it more than others do. I don't quite know why, 'cause at times I crave the opposite. Maybe it's the BPD. Maybe it's the PTSD. Maybe it's the fact that I'm scared I'll mess up or disappoint the people in my life. I used to act like I didn't care, but I always cared. I probably cared too much. I still do. I don't want to mess up.

I sit down on the floor of the shower, letting the water rinse me off.

This has probably been the worst year of my life. I'm glad it's half over. Until it's completely over, I'll try to make something with the rest of it.

After a few more minutes, I reach for the taps, turning them off and standing up. I grab a towel from the rack and dry off, wrapping it around my waist before returning to my bedroom.

Sifting through my closet, I pull out a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. I throw them on and Kenny walks into my room a moment later, looking groggy. "Welcome back," he says, giving me a quick peck on the lips. "How was your weekend?"

"Good," I tell him. "It started off kind of shitty, but it ended up being good. Really good, actually. I talked to my parents a lot. Cried a bit. Sorted out some financial stuff. I was honest with them. I told them we're together. Actually, I told them pretty much everything that happened this year. God, I'm so fucking emotional and full of guilt lately, I don't know why…"

Kenny nods along to what I'm saying. "Well, you _are_ emotionally unstable… and now that you're no longer stifling, there's a _lot_ to let out."

I laugh bitterly at that. "It feels better than hiding it, I guess…"

Kenny nods his head some more. "It always does. It's bad to bottle things. You need to let it out."

I can't disagree with that.

"Becca's parents came and tried to guilt trip me," I decide to share. "It pretty much worked. I ended up going out and looking for her later on in the day. I found her, pleaded with her a bit, but she wouldn't come back with me. I knew she wouldn't, but I still felt like I had to try, y'know?"

"I know," Kenny says softly.

"She forgave me," I murmur offhandedly.

"How did that make you feel?" he asks.

"Bad," I admit.

"Hm…" Kenny muses. "What are you going to do now, then?"

"I don't know," I say. "I want to keep trying, but she's leaving town. I feel like she'll fucking haunt me forever, no matter how far away she is."

"Dude, you _can't_ let her," Kenny responds sympathetically. "I know it must be hard… but you'll _never_ be okay if you keep letting the guilt in like this."

I just shrug, not wanting to talk about it anymore.

Clearly, Kenny senses this. "So, is Clyde still down there?" he asks.

"I think so," I say. "He was on the sofa sleeping when I got home."

"We watched a movie when I got home last night," Kenny adds with a chuckle.

I smile at that. "Which one?"

" _Norwegian Wood_ ," he says. "It was Japanese."

I nod my head. "I read the book. Murakami. Was the movie any good?"

"It was pretty melancholy," he starts. "Lots of… death. The atmosphere of it made me kind of sad, but I liked it."

"The book was like that, too," I tell him, "but it's one of my favourites."

"Clyde hated it," Kenny says with a chuckle.

I laugh along with him and add, "Not surprised. He's more into action movies. _Norwegian Wood_ is far from action packed."

"The movie made me think about my own life and all the things that have happened to me so far," Kenny confesses. "It made me think where I'll be when I'm older and what else will happen until then."

"Bad things, good things," I say, shrugging.

"Hopefully more good than bad," he replies, smiling slightly.

"Hopefully," I echo.

We head downstairs. Clyde is sitting up by now, stretching his arms out in front of him.

"Good afternoon," I say to him.

He turns around and smiles at me. "Hey. How was your weekend?"

"Good," I tell him. "I'll fill you in on the rest later on."

"Got any food?" he asks, his smile turning sheepish.

Kenny nods for him to follow into the kitchen. "I'll cook somethin' good."

In the kitchen, me and Cyde sit down at the table, conversing with Kenny as he stands by the stove. Neither of them stare at my wrists.

* * *

The sun sets and the day dies. I decide to go to bed early, but Kenny stays up and watches television. Uno lies on the bottom of my bed near my feet, keeping me company.

Clyde left after we ate. He had work, but I'll see him again soon. I think he feels like he got me back after I've been gone for a long time. In a sense, I _was_ gone. Drugs do that to you. They turn you into a shell. They change you.

My mind is reeling lately, going a million miles a minute. I can hardly keep up with all my thoughts, but I'm trying to. No more shortcuts. No more pretending. No more locking myself away and waiting for another day, another day, another damn day. No more putting off tomorrow. No more lies.

Late in the night, I'm still wide awake. I'm often kept up by my thoughts.

Kenny crawls into bed with me a little past midnight. "How are you feeling?" he asks.

"Okay," I tell him. "How are _you_ feeling?"

"Okay," he echoes.

And then it's quiet. He inches closer and I feel his breath on my face. It smells like mint toothpaste. He's warm, pleasantly so. I feel his hair tickling my chin.

I feel like I could really fall in love with him if I'm not already. Not that I'd be able to say it any time soon, because that's just it… it's too soon. I think Kenny knows this, though he still says it to me most days. I don't mind hearing it. In fact, I like it. It makes me feel good things, things I haven't felt in a while. I smile to myself thinking about it – about him and the way he makes me feel.


	10. Epilogue

**South Park © Matt & Trey.**

 **I hope no one gets mad about this, but not everyone has a happy ending and that's just life. Thanks to everyone who reviewed kindly along the way and I'm happy I've completed yet another story!**

 **Many long Crenny/Cryde/Creek 1shots will be coming up soon, so stay tuned.**

 **(Speaking of, who is nervous about the various possibilities of this week's episode? ME! Never thought we'd see the day where Matt and Trey ask for yaoi fanart.)**

* * *

It's weird when people die. It never feels quite real, but maybe I shouldn't be so shocked. Kenny warned me of this, after all. I just chose not to believe him. Then I just forgot. I guess he really is clairvoyant.

The funeral is over. Everyone is gone except for me and Kenny. Everyone is at her parents' house, but there's no way I could show my face there. It was hard enough being here at the funeral.

I stare down at the fresh grave. I feel like I'm having some sort of nightmare. I can't even see straight.

"She was pregnant again," I say, feeling like I'm in some sort of daze. "This time… it wasn't mine. It probably belonged to some asshole who will never have to hear about it."

"Yeah," Kenny whispers.

"I think a part of me kind of knew this would be inevitable," I confess. "I feel like I've been waiting for it ever since she left detox and relapsed."

Kenny frowns, nodding his head as he stands next to me. "I'm really sorry, Craig."

"It is what it is."

He puts an arm around me and we continue to stand in silence. I feel like I'm trying to telepathically communicate to her how fucking sorry I am… but I can't keep throwing apologies down her throat. She's gone now. I think, in ways, she's been gone for a long time.

"You can cry if you want," Kenny says. "I won't tell anyone."

I glance at him and let out a laugh. It comes out weak. There are knots in my stomach, lumps in my throat. I feel light headed, like this still can't be real but I know it is. I sniffle loudly when I feel my nose running. "Fuck," I whisper. I really don't want to start getting all worked up. Not here, not now.

Kenny rubs my shoulder, but he doesn't anything else. He stares down at the tombstone and pretends I'm not crying, but we both know I am. It doesn't make me feel any better. People say crying gives you relief, but I don't feel any relief right now. I just feel an overwhelming sense of guilt because this is something I can't make right. It's something I can't take back. Radical acceptance isn't going to help me in this situation. Not for a while.

I'm just glad I didn't have to see what she looked like. I want to keep the image of her that I have – the one where she's young, pretty, smiling…

I don't know why I'm still lingering here. I guess there are still things I wish I got to tell her. We always talked about doing all these extravagant things we never got to do. We wanted to go places, to see things...

I want to close my eyes and see her standing in front of me when I open them. Then I could say this was all just a dream or a bad trip or something. We'd be kids again and none of this would have happened.

There's a knot in my stomach when I think about all these what-ifs, all these things that will never come to be. It's too late. It's too late for what-ifs. It's too late to imagine all the things I could have done right.

I feel like she's everywhere when in reality she's nowhere. I look at myself naked in the mirror and I see her all over me. I look at my bed and I remember fucking her, I remember her fucking me. I look at the cuts on my thighs and remember exactly which ones were from when I'd think of her. I drink coffee and remember how much she'd like the lattes Tweek made. I walk past the diner, the park, the school… and I think about all the damn memories I have of her in these places. Nothing is the same now.

I keep having to remind myself she's gone. No, she's dead. Being dead is different than being gone, 'cause she's been gone for a long damn time.

It's funny how empty knowing that makes me feel. I guess that's what happens when you love someone as much as I loved her. They become your everything and then when they leave you're left with nothing at all. You need to build yourself back up. Then again, I've needed to build myself back up for years and years. I just put it off because I had her. Then I didn't and now she's dead.

I take one last look at the tombstone before forcing myself to turn away.

Bye, Becca.

I glance at Kenny and say, "Let's go home."

* * *

Becca did end up travelling and for the longest time she refused to come back to South Park. When she finally did come home it wasn't of her own volition. She came home in a body bag, so she didn't have much of a say in the matter.

But at least she's finally home and I like to think that maybe she's at peace. I don't know if I believe in life after death, but she makes me want to believe there's at least something more when it's all over. Something better.

I close my eyes and my chest feels hollow and tight. I don't really know how I'm going to move on from a thing like his. Do I even deserve to? I guess this is something I'll have to talk about with my therapist.

I let out a shuddery breath.

I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay…

I'm okay.

I open my eyes and see Kenny hovering in the doorway of my dim bedroom. He looks sad – sad for Becca and sad for me, though I know I don't deserve it.

"Don't start punishing yourself again," Kenny says pleadingly.

"I won't," I tell him as I lie in bed. "I just need some time."

"Promise me."

"I won't," I tell him again. "I swear."

For him, I won't. For my parents, I won't. For Ruby, I won't. For my friends, I won't. For me, I won't. Even if I want to more than anything, I won't… but as twisted as it sounds, moments like this make me glad I've been hurt so much in the past. When I'm feeling crippling amounts of guilt I wonder if these bad things happened to me because I myself was doing bad things to other people. I've been hurt because I hurt others. It's punishment.

I killed Rebecca.

The night I found out about her death Kenny just kept telling me I didn't kill her. " _It's not your fault_ ," he said again and again and again, but the words were so lost to me. Maybe someday they'll sink in, but not now.

My parents had called me. I could tell by the sympathetic voice that it was something bad. When my mom got the words out, I just let out this long sigh into the receiver and said, " _Oh_." I hung up after that and I started to shake and my breath wasn't coming in properly. Kenny was in the kitchen, but he heard me in the living room. The rest of the night was a blur. I just remember there was a lot of crying and if Kenny wasn't home, I know I probably would have relapsed or gotten disgustingly drunk.

I introduced her to the drug that took over her fucking life. Her parents blame me. When the wounds are no longer fresh, I'll go visit them. Maybe the dust will have settled and they'll no longer blame me, but then again maybe they will. I can't know. Nonetheless, I hope someday I can come to terms with what happened. I hope I won't always hate myself for it.

I feel like some of that fear is melting away. Slowly, yet surely.

Maybe it's like my grandma told me when she was on her deathbed: "When you get older you get wiser and you're no longer scared."

Scared of what?

Everything.

Living, dying – all the things between and whatever comes after. I found it reassuring.

So, here I am and I'm no longer afraid. Well, perhaps not yet… but I'm getting there.

With one foot in front of the other, I'll take my first step into the light and out of the dark. Time to live yet again. Here goes nothing. I wanna be better, I wanna be better, I wanna be better, I wanna… _be_.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven… _All good children go to heaven._

* * *

I continue going to therapy and I continue going to my N.A. meetings. I try to put a lot of my time and effort into those two things. Sometimes it's hard to talk. Sometimes I need to force myself and my voice just shakes.

I stare down at the coin in my hand.

Six months.

I've been sober for six months... and counting.

Tonight is going to be a speaker meeting and I'm going to be the speaker. I'll talk about myself and I'll try not to shy away from the parts I like to pretend never happened. So, I'll talk about my uncle. I'll talk about Rebecca. I'll talk about Kenny. I'll talk about my BPD. I'll talk about my drug of choice. I'll talk about wanting and trying to fucking kill myself. I'll talk about all the shit I put myself through. I'll talk about fucking for money. I'll talk about what that resulted in. I'll talk about getting sober. I'll talk about Rebecca's miscarriage. I'll talk about losing her. I'll talk about her death. I'll talk about Kenny some more. I'll say I love him. I'll talk about the light at the end of the tunnel - dim as it may be, it's still there. All the heavy shit I'm no longer burying.

"What are you thinking about?" Kenny asks as he sits across me at the breakfast table.

Just like he promised, he hasn't hurt me. I recognize that forcing him to promise a thing like that was silly of me, but he has somehow managed to keep it. I also recognize that sometimes things happen that are beyond my control and beyond his control. Because of this, he could end up hurting me someday. If he does, I'll try to work through it and not wreck a good thing... because what we've got IS a good thing.

"You," I coo at him, smiling.

"Good things, I hope!" he chuckles.

"As always," I promise.

"Want me to drive you to your meeting tonight?" he offers.

"Sure," I say. "You can stay for it, if you want."

He looks surprised. "You don't mind?"

"No, I don't mind," I tell him.

He softens. "All right... Yeah, I'd like to come."

* * *

When 5PM approaches, me and Kenny drive down to the community health center. I feel nervous, but I push it all aside and try to calm myself down. It helps to talk sometimes and it helps even more to talk to people who understand a little bit of what you're going through. You don't feel like you're being judged as harshly.

Inside, the facilitators are getting the seats ready.

"Hey, Craig!" the GSR greets me.

"Hey," I echo, holding up a hand.

"Ready for tonight?"

"Ready as I'll ever be," I tell him, forcing a smile that probably looks somewhat weary.

People begin to pile in and when it hits 5PM, everyone is seated. The group facilitator gets up behind the podium to introduce me. When my name is said, I stand up and take his place behind the podium, staring out at the group of people in front of me. Then I see Kenny. We lock eyes and he smiles, nodding his head. I let out a deep, calming breath.

"Hi, my name is Craig," I start. "I'm an addict."

 **Fin.**


End file.
